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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