Friday, April 3, 2015

Pink peas

Friday, April 03, 2015

I pinch it between my thumb
And forefinger
As if a pink pea,
A pea that grows hard
With heat, not soft
And drips wet if I
Pinch too much,
A juice I lick
And let linger
On my lips,
Each sip rich
Not like wine or honey
Though I get inebriated by it
And think it just as sweet,
Pumping the curved surface
Between it
So as to drink even more

I live for the feel of this,
For the hot or cold
The hard or soft,
The sweet or bitter of it,
Aching for what makes me ache
Needing to touch or taste
All that I am told I should not,
The fire on the stove,
Things that would make me blind,
The forbidden fruit,
The pink pea that oozes juice
Only I think of as sweet
To covet what the Bible says
I should not,
To feel and in turn be felt
By all there is
And all there will ever be.

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