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the Pathos of a Plum.
February 27, 2015
the dusty skins are the same
as the dusky skies
and the splintered deck
and the quart of purple fruit that is sitting in my lap.
their flesh is warm
a branch of bone is their new tree
in a high and blustering wind, my hand
is the wood of misery
I clutch at one and it stares at me
a bruise blue pondering eye
a great heavy eye that does not cry,
but sheds great drops of weeping sweetness.
and I the stoic
broken and damned
stoop to the purple indigo
and eat sorrow from my hand.
© Nancy M., Milford, CT
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