I.
A pair of urns, thrown against the belly bark skin of a tree
and busted. The fruit hanging above, pointing down
in double-edged swords, falls like icicles around the collection of shards
lying at the base of the tree. When you eat this fruit,
you walk away with a belly full of knives that
jostle as you walk, points reaching forth and bearing edges
that split open your gut to reveal you
as a naked, muscled skeleton underneath. Who told you
that you were naked?
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Some stories write themselves. Like this one.
There were no days, hours, minutes, or seconds
to count, to draw lines across this globe’s face with,
to make motorized machinery with strange faces and no mouths
to tell you how fast to go,
or how much of the day you’ve left to spend
like tired-eyed laborers with a pocket full of gold
and a gaping throat hungering for liquor. No years to
number your graying hairs with,
no decades to watch and count your children –
the ones that survived,
growing up like corn stalks until they gave forth their own fruit
and their ears blacked out the sun. No centuries Continue reading
