I thought I ate that bleeding peach
enough times for my chin to stain
a sour shade of pink.
I can’t recall, the moments fell like towers-
but did I grind the pit into a powder?
Pressed beneath the skin like all the hours
you never spoke to me.
And every grain of it is like a silt of iron filings,
that’s settled in the center where
you said there was a furnace
burning hotter than the sea.
I always want to tell you that
it felt more like a cage that held
the eyeballs of a voyeur.
Either way the poles rip holes
with every waking hour.
When all your love for me was spent in
was it frail just like a springtime flower?
Or was it more like fingertips in winter-
a livid numb that in time feels like power?
Or was it more a nihilistic craggy pale of grey,
like rocks along the northern coast,
where all the oil slick finches peck the sand
to pass the hours?
The question has no answer and
the querant couldn’t hear above the
cackle of the finches, wind and waves.
Even in the quiet of
the sweet pea’s petals freezing,
there is only ever me,
the pit and other cowards.