by Bruce Bond
You could be turning it in your fingers like a planet.
A knife would do, if you're good with knives,
bracing the hard fruit in your slender hand;
a knife and a narrow gaze to guide it.
You brush a fly from your lip, quiet your breath.
Then there's the sound a vow makes when it shatters,
and the shallow fissure splits and reddens.
And all for this: a stain running out of a maze,
its honeycomb filled with dead sweet bees.
Your hunger is a straight line, pinned and singing.
It's only now you realized what you craved,
how shyly you ripened into a panic.
As for the shiny rivulets of juice
you chose your eye to drink, who's to say
it was their freshness that drew you? All those times
You slipped your tongue into the bright tomb
the way a moth enters a jar of lamplight.
You know the place, how its mouth meets yours.
And now wherever you leave, it's winter.
You go to the window and wait, stare, turn away,
and the long night trails you like a gown.
Even in March as you return to all
your name's sake, what flowers you see are the tips
of buried fingers, each red flame bursting
through the earthly crust, calling you down.
FUCK YEAH, SNACK TIME (Click to show)
LIT FITS VOLUME II