Still the Apple
His mouth moon-craters my flesh,
curves tiny ribbons in flushed skin.
After gorging, he holds my skeleton
to the light, peers through small slits
between the ribs in search of a heart.
He does not find one, only the rust-
brown of the scalloped wounds left
by his teeth. Later, I’ll bleed black.
For him, little change now, except
his lips’ sometimes strained shape,
weighted down by past sweetness.
First published in Envoi, then in plenty-fish (Nine Arches Press)