You open the cupboard
and realize you haven't
looked here in a while.
Syrupy sweet and sour
mustiness commingle
under thin layers of dust.
Early accounts of pioneers
and their earnest attempts
at civilization come to mind
as you part the preserves.
Winter, emergencies, now
end times: Saving yourself
for that last apocalypse, provided
they don't stoop to eating flesh.
You expect to find rusty peaches,
apricots, some ghostly cherries
suspended in ink. You remember
intoxicating dark juices dribbling
down your chin. Never could get
enough of that forbidden fruit,
luscious blend of musk and tang
under a scorching midday sun.
They break apart in a swirl of pulp,
bleached by time's amnesia.
What is it you're looking for?
Memory clouds in confusion.
Your mind, a reticent pickle,
refuses the inner prompt.
You stand there - disobedient - and
allow your fingers to do the thinking.
By now they've developed instincts,
come in real handy on those days
you encounter fruitless expectations.
Reaching up they fumble, as blind
as worms, nose around a presence,
cold and glassy, at the back,
where spiders have taken liberties.
What is it again? The ingredient
you're searching for? The reason
you are here? Why are you? Here?
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
