I’m the best one. Trust
me. I’m obsessed
with truth. Like this: the shakuhachi is an end-blown
Japanese flute used as a tool for meditation. Never mind
the butter stain on my blouse, I’m sparkling
like a new espresso machine and just
as potent. Breathe me, I’m brewing and the steam
swhistles across your chest, condensing.
The hygienist, as you would expect,
has brilliant teeth and lovely gums, similar
in color and sheen to the grapefruit wedge
she spoons into her mouth. Then toast with butter,
yogurt, tea – a perfect morning meal
and not one greasy crumb on her scrubs.
The flesh of the persimmon is a bit
like Amanda’s ache – no end to it.
My husband likes to eat persimmons
with walnuts and has little patience
for Amanda’s daily braying. Tragedy,
he says, feeds narcissism. A mouth
can fall into a persimmon – no core,
no seeds, no membrane separating
wedges, slowing an appetite down.
I commend you on your beneficence, your pious dedication to coexistence
even though your policy of capture and release when faced with the ones
who give you the heebie-jeebs smacks of hypocrisy. I still suffer night