Poem: shannon felt
When she turned from the lover at her side
and sighing, reached gracefully at last
for the late fat fruit dangling low in the evening-
was the moon there? Did it watch the way
her limbs fit straight and strong into the round
night, the way she wore it like a cloak, that night,
until it wrapped and kissed her? Did the night
pull her there or did she race through it, foresight
be damned, hysterical, flinging apples to the ground?
In such a state, doubtless she’d have lasted
long. Though maybe we were all animals then, the way
we snarled and sighed. Wild and naïve
beasts braying at our destinies caught in the leaves.
No moon then, when she plucked a pearl out of the night-
in the dark just a darker drop in shadow. The way
a womb swallows a seed, a sprite of life inside
a solid, swirling sea. Darkness, alas,
merely space that waits. Space that fits around
each of us, breathing possibility. All around
her the waiting, heaving world. What reprieve?
She could not last, lying there- knew she could not last
one long, thin second longer, faithful to the knight
for whom the sun said she was maid. Besides,
that hunger. Her life suddenly ripe in the way
of the apple, the moment she felt its weight.
She ate. The world within her. The core on the ground.
Was she sated? Did he wake? And the size
of her, the moon of her eyes; who would believe
it was merely time snaking by, the night
passing through her, that made her bite? Iconoclast,
she was hair and teeth and blood at last.
She would have her way with it: her wayward
cataclysm, her dark lust, deadly nightshade
swallowed for new life. And now all around
her the mammalian scent of body and relief;
the tautness of skin fitting bones at her sides-
She left then, as the sun chased the night from the coppice, light sighing
onto the last red fruits swaying fat and heavy in their eaves
rich and ovate, the way droplets wait for the ground.