Imagine a plum pit, extracted.
It lies on the table between us,
the purpling extravagance
of spilled wine. I wonder
if you believe in fate,
or in just taking a chance,
when your fingers travel
the short distance between
our breathless, ardent bodies
to grasp the slippery, innocent pit.
You don't waste any time
tonguing its rough grooves,
a slight odiferous sourness
staining your lips. You don't
consider for an instant
you've kissed an unloved region.
That pit has been lodged
like a split personality
inside my secret, starless part
drawing fantasies further
down into stasis and longing.
What is apogee, if it isn't this?
Our covert patterns, call them,
orbiting away from love,
beg permission to perform
quick surgery. Already,
the isolating, elliptical
distances are closing
inside that swelling
heft of fruit.
Originally published April 2009