A FREE-VERSE POEM
Feta, I need lots of feta in the salad to drive
Down the line of aromas and articulate
After I speak my mind into garlicky breath
And slur the bacon, streaked and, Salty,
On my tongue, greedily;
When I caress it as a man would
On, around my knees and my lips;
That salt flavor will wilt the flowers —
Not my flowers — in longing and betrothals
Against a naked, diamond ring, naked,
Cutting like this knife against a trembling,
Empty eye. You see. The cutting board has
A shallot, a bell pepper — the capsicum;
On a rainy day, this will taste sweet upon the
Crunch of a macerating bite. Blooming.
I see a red one and a green one — confetti
Tossed in — on top, inside. My mouth is not
On fire, but it still carries a blistering shout.
Satisfaction. The water in my mouth is my
Stutter. It’s my salivating dream.
There’s those little tomatoes, too —
What are they called? The red ones, candy-ripe,
Jeweled in their preciousness. Oblong.
Then, the tanginess of a dressing like oily,
Undulating prophecies, like Cassandra in her
Nightmares, her sleep vibrations puncturing
What would be salvation on a day like this,
Or on an afternoon.
✴✴✴
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