(This is one of series of poems inspired by recent reading s
from The Book of Eros)
It is not the apple
That drips of sweat but
My fingers as they curve
Around it, my warmth
Contrasted against its
Cool as I imagine another
Shape that fits as well,
But feels warmer in
my palm, my flesh
needing that flesh
if not to feel
whole, then at
least to feel real, and
so I pretend as I
take that apple to my
mouth and let my
teeth sink through its
red skin that my tongue
tastes another fruit
much more forbidden.
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