Chomp…Chomp…Chomp on This

You want me to write as if
I am primitive bones rising from the ashes
Instead of a woman hurling towards death
I have never taken pleasure in the meat of fruit
Only the skin – it fascinates me to no end
Sometimes I eat it
The perfect and firm hull of what may just be
A rotten existence
How juicy red apple delicious is this poem
My rind has curling edges that refuse
Conformity once fondled
And penetrated
It is useless for blackboard education
School girl musings
And rote memories
I gave my wedding dress to my mother
For safekeeping
To keep safe from ink spills
And bloodshed – you know
Random things like that
For every crime
There is a culprit ready to break their shell
Peel back the layers
And rest among table grapes pristine green
And checkered table cloths on days with too much sun
This is my ideal stay of execution
And right about now
I am sure that you want to take a big bite out of my intellect
Chewing it into teeny tiny pieces
Until every stodgy bit is strained into a creamy mad mess
The toddler next door will take up my wit
And paint the kitchen walls
Pea green and marmalade orange
But I have come too far
And you have said too little
I am not cold black quartz
Nor soft gorilla fur
I cannot be that skin or this for you
I am too busy
Far too busy living
And spitting out pits
Slowly working my way
Out of time

© 2013. Dorhora. All rights reserved.

"Pomegranate 3." Photograph by Simon Blackley.

“Pomegranate 3.” Photograph by Simon Blackley.


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