hello, heart

hello, big bowl

of purple plums,

 

rising up and

bursting forth

 

in cool sweetness

and simplicity;

 

hello, exigent

machine: pulsing,

 

pulsing to its

emery end;

 

hello, beautiful

redundancy:

 

our intrinsic need

to hear it again

 

and again; that which

keeps us human.

 

hello, heart.

 

 

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eighth

o ye of little faith,

o ye of tiny bank account,

o ye of large heart,

o ye of many worries,

 

o ye of few true friends,

o ye of precious child,

o ye of perpetual exhaustion,

o ye of strong passions:

 

if you have but the faith of a mustard seed—

yet even a half, a quarter, an eighth—

 

you shall be seen and heard; you shall be

provided for; you shall inherit the mountain.

need

i am standing in a sugar field

waiting to be sweet.

 

i fixate in the blur of

your raw hands on the

 

sheaves:

 

pulling, picking,

tasting, shearing.

 

i take my head out of

my hands

 

so i can hold the

tea, breathe into

 

its steam, feel the

container of its

 

memory.

 

i am power-

less against this

 

need;

 

it picks up warp speed as we

amble through the cane

 

toward the punishing

sun.

First Kiss, by Kim Addonizio

Afterwards you had that drunk, drugged look
my daughter used to get, when she had let go
of my nipple, her mouth gone slack and her eyes
turned vague and filmy, as though behind them
the milk was rising up to fill her
whole head, that would loll on the small
white stalk of her neck so I would have to hold her
closer, amazed at the sheer power
of satiety, which was nothing like the needing
to be fed, the wild flailing and crying until she fastened
herself to me and made the seal tight
between us, and sucked, drawing the liquid down and
out of my body; no, this was the crowning
moment, the giving of herself, knowing
she could show me how helpless
she was—that’s what I saw, that night when you
pulled your mouth from mine and
leaned back against a chain-link fence,
in front of a burned-out church: a man
who was going to be that vulnerable,
that easy and impossible to hurt.

red has no regrets

red has no regrets:
suicide is weight-less.

the mess of grief captured
else-where where color is not.

in this giant living collage, the
collective blood pasted together

makes me appreciate
my own need:

slowed down
into stills.

please

i want
to feel your thorns, run
my tongue up, down, over their peak,
let them cut me deep, make me weak,
make me bleed for you, seep into your
hungry mouth; i want to feel you come
apart when you taste me, take me
under, tear me open-asunder with
want and wait and need. i want
you greedy for only me, for my
teeth against your throat, my
adorned desire on its knees.
please.