All the men I want are fallen
fruit, not so much forbidden,
as inadvisable to the salubrious
a tad fermented
a worm burrowing through
dark spots and dull skin
Not looking to play savior
I am so fabulously saved,
like red wine on a white shirt,
like seeds weeping into black dirt,
like a number in my phone
I never called
Do I want to be
beneath the tree
soft and tired
like holed-up holy fruit
I'm not addicted,
but it's my favorite kind
The stuff that's started to live
why does live mean leave
Why do I always compare
the hairs on your chest
to winter vines
Why do I crave to make kiddush
over your body
Sinking deeper into the earth
hope a distant, circling bird
my mouth comes upon you
hungry, tasteless animal
But in reality, I turn the pages
of the prayer book
and wonder if I'm rotten
fruit, not so much forbidden,
as inadvisable to the salubrious
a tad fermented
a worm burrowing through
dark spots and dull skin
Not looking to play savior
I am so fabulously saved,
like red wine on a white shirt,
like seeds weeping into black dirt,
like a number in my phone
I never called
Do I want to be
beneath the tree
soft and tired
like holed-up holy fruit
I'm not addicted,
but it's my favorite kind
The stuff that's started to live
why does live mean leave
Why do I always compare
the hairs on your chest
to winter vines
Why do I crave to make kiddush
over your body
Sinking deeper into the earth
hope a distant, circling bird
my mouth comes upon you
hungry, tasteless animal
But in reality, I turn the pages
of the prayer book
and wonder if I'm rotten
✱✱✱
| No'a L. bat Miri is not a poet, but she does a decent fake-out. She holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte's program in Latin America. Find her around the internet @noabatmiri and noabatmiri.com. |
