It was her yellowed skin, a green morning
between cottonwood trees. I'd never felt
the flavor of the plum, the violet heave
of her insides before the dome awakens.
It was her soured lip, a sweet beginning
to a miserable vanity. I'd never heard
her tongue inside my body, the gold curve
of her brow bringing darkness to the dust.
What could it be? What is the awful sight
of her wearied eye? The neglected person
hidden beyond this anguished identity?
But shall we be released of this smell
of blood? Shall we ever taste the fruit
of our labor despite the dreadful storm?
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