Passing

Autumn Hayes (1st place. Poetry. Fall 2011 Writing Contest)
 
Speech
between us     now     gutters
my soul;
 
simple possibility of our fingers
skimming
while exchanging a bowl of
cherriespearsroastduck
cyclones
me
to upholstered hell,
our former abode
now dinner-party pad
     where you pretend
nothing’s transpired,
expired
         being’s bowels
         smell like rancid cashews,
         soft, afloat in own lukewarm oils,
         yet passed around like so much
         conversation
and just your nose’s tip
makes me wish to dissolve, recrystalize
in some other cup
or time, where possibly
you are
the one dissolving,
sprinkling away like handfuls
of sugar on someone else’s
windheadfield,
 
or salt
 
but I don’t mean that,
 
do I?

 
 
 
 
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