POETRY
The Frozen Arils In Your Throat
Free Verse
The space between us tastes of something
that may have once been red — the violet
of our skins swears by it.
Denial ages like thick wine when left
to freeze —
the arils, cold in our throats, swear by it.
We squeeze them, droplets of longing,
out of our eye sockets,
tart with thoughts of what could have been,
what could never be.
I have made wine of us,
left it to curdle for years, to dribble
lump upon lump
into a sacred chalice none can drink from but you —
Once filled, now overflowing —
I raise it to the heavens
so they may see my sacrifice,
lick their lips as they watch life drain from my face,
as the sides of my tongue crisp and curl,
a helpless effort to fold
around the words I mustn’t lift.
Still, they slip and climb as dust in the air,
a sweet pollen I mustn’t inhale,
yet linger a little longer to…
