April 26, 2011
One quick glance, and the image is sown deep:
A sleek, black seed slipping under the skin
Of my chest. And I, condemned to keep
This oversized fruit pressing from within,
Watered by each encounter, it rages
Inside like a snow globe in brown paper;
Secret and silent. I observe stages
For which that quiet fire burns. A wafer,
Insipid and dull, in a chocolate sweater.
Its aftertaste is bitter, to be frank;
Binding my will in a merciless fetter.
Your gilded armor flickers in your wat’ry bank.
You float to the top of your shallow grave
And never look back at your stultified slave.

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