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| genelle chaconas |  | 1. EVE Won't you have a peach? There's a tree, twisted, moans. its limbs broke off this last frost that shuddered and shook. There's a tree, its arms snapped Dangling over smooth, smeared waves like silk fire. Won't you have it? I found it myself just one where wind heaves moist blue voices and dry sheaves flap, dead as footfalls just this round ball drowned in rotten silent moss so clean for you. Break it, furious root empires rise white in the dusk drawn moon Bite it, a liquor radiates through black milky clay flesh gurgles, twisted songs down down Won't you eat this peach, every bite? I stood a long time in my garden on the wet swing and stole it all for you. 2. FISH BOWLS You stand at the foot of blind patrons, their buckshot brocades, their cups filled with black wine. An accordion player wheezes to a halt. A raven flops to a rest in his hat, begins a drowsy waltz, laudanum polka. Give me some water from the bottle of your eyes, my precious fish They covet my dream's fabric an orange, spread eagled in a scaffold's embrace. Listen. A child cries under this oily petticoat eleven miles North. | |
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