cherry bombs, your approaching sneakers.
High Mass, your retreating shoes.
she jumped off the roof.
twice.
no bruise, no scratch
the taste of dirt.
early morning,
her hand walked into a wall.
priestly purple cast,
six weeks.
tunnels of love tundras of love
love of tunnels and tundras
she's in the right place,
but doesn't know the time.
tetanus shots six times a year
forks, knives, sharpened spoons.
The buzz
the click
of cnn-nbc-fox-cbs-cnn
bodies abound,
obvious mothers all look the same,
little dead girls posed like Christ
and evil,
evil, they say, doesn't exist.
And now,
Who am I when I hold this plum?
I am I, holding a plum,
a plum not ready
for teeth or tongue.
I am I,
who waits for fruit to bruise,
to dent,
not asking to be tasted,
but to be anticipated
like
opening a gift.
Sugar plums,
black plums
in September
in New York
from a creaking, dusty
wooden stand,
downtown.
Downtown there were fruit stands.
Or on 18th Avenue.
In Brooklyn
In September
near the station
where I picked up the N train.
I've dyed my hair the color
of plums.
Great color.
Never lasts.
Just like September.
Back to happier thoughts.
Undeserved,
when the television cackles.