Sweet purple yams,
cloying and thick on the peaks of your tongue
stain the lips, paint the teeth;
drink the marrow from my bones
sing a dirge for me,
tell me of a finite fecundity
and dance in the domes of filtered dusk as I arch up
into a stasis thinner than the ridges of your eyeteeth.
Smile: toothy and violet.
Sweet purple yams
smear in the hollow of my brow;
guide me to grains of sugar and
glean the oxygen from my pulse.