It isn’t the edge of anything, this hurting, pears, heavy as lovers hanging around me like tears. The pain tastes of apricots, of melons. I never liked melons, even the red ones kids’ parties favored, along with hot dogs on white buns that looked, with ketchup, like sanitary napkins, remember those? I’m in the center of it, with no ball of string. My wailing only calls in mosquitoes. Look at me, runnels turned to rivers of canned laughter. Do you remember when you promised fidelity? Did you mean loyalty or precision? Was it the absence of the blood that sent you reeling? My ovoid belly? If neediness becomes the Minotaur of this silence, these pears, with their grit of stone cells, may be exactly the nourishment I crave.
art and poems for the How Writers Write Poetry mooc from Iowa, ongoing free class. Mary Stebbins Taitt, 1st draft, Thursday, April 30, 2015, 10:06 PM, for Hop Shore
I spent the entire day with my Mother-in-law from early morning until after 7 PM--assignment due by midnight, so I am burning the midnight oils. (These are hastily done, but I had fun!)