I’ve been wanting
for ritual
a honeydew melon curve
pressed against the dining room table
type of anticipation
I don’t swallow in fear of never knowing taste
again,
but accept the scrape of spoon
against tooth
as confirmation I knew it at all
I’m told
this is what we do:
savor memory till it ache in the mouths
of our predecessors,
so much so
that the cavity be present
in all that our children sputter
across tables

my mouth
be a skipping stone
for every story my body misremembers
A ripple is present
for each table
of loud mouthed jubilant jokers passing plates of Cod—
maybe catfish—
no maybe something more like Sunday,
something like Sphagetti—
no no more like a roast,
a pork chop,
something that isn’t always exclusively food,
but always feel like food the next day,
something like a game
of cards, spades, spoons, bid whist,
something that still coat the bone till the same time next week,
something left to sit,
meaning in crock pots of fantasm,
long enough it easily pull away from it’s own bone
like spirit from host

*

Untitled

 
I don’t know
where words go
when they slip round
down there
maybe Tunica—

maybe a Mississippi twice removed

floating beneath my throat
memories that eventually
grow the will to become
dreams

*

Westside Bathroom

An ending like water
chasing serpentine basins
for ceremonial perfumes
sacrifice all of what I once was
for a bath of phantoms in my mouth
launder my back with a letter
of what having hands must feel like
I don’t need a mirror
to make sense of my spine
don’t cloak my thought in grief
i ain’t no window
no glass of water
could be this sweet
I had to convince myself
fluidity can’t be captured
for just a moment
so at any given moment
I could just jump out this body
finally understanding the sentiment
of what sediment is left
on a pain that I
now know as
pleasure

*

(Featured image from Pexels)