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The bowl is heavier than an eggshell,
filled to the brim with a tart sea of yogurt
festooned with berries black and blue,
red inert hearts drawn and quartered,
reminding me very much of your mouth:
a crescent quirking, sweet with summer.
Currents of honey and gritty swathes of flax
spill over the shore like filigree.
I wonder at your smile. Is it something
for me to pluck and set upon my tongue?
The spoon slips evenly into the sea,
a silvery sloop delving into the meat of it,
and everything so saccharine, so plaintive;
it tastes like a profanity. Catharsis,
the breath leaving the bottle at the uncorking.
Suspended by a ballast, meeting the surf,
a ritual so solemn it makes me wish to shed
my typist’s appendage, to run deep
into the wood in search of release, or
exquisite reverence, to fight or flee.
For my love of your mind, your guileless
wisdom, is a seat I should yearn for.
It is so wretched that you refuse to be
the world—that you should untether me
with your hat gently tipped, like one
loosing a catboat into the yawning channel,
promising false assurances.
For alone shall I grow claws and fangs,
finding a place in my creations at breakfast,
because you probably believe in me.
Shall I make a break for it now?
The bowl is empty save for rocks and grit,
bits and bobs, flecks of blood,
lovemaking leftover, imagination defiled.
Do I captain this vessel, beamy and
single-masted, into the belly of it all,
or dash myself on the rocks
and sleep facedown in the sand,
let the sun lift me, and chance upon myself?
Still Life with Cheese, Almonds, and Pretzels | 1857 AZ USA 11.18.25