Unsavory Harvests

Spice is seined from frowning earth

into loaves of flavor and celebration.

 

Microscopic abandon

is grated from dermis.

 

Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark

yips wakened morsels down edges

 

of my geometric shadows:

rot, you unshapely ellipses.

 

Our roots expanded. They chipped

the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.

 

Our processes are wintry.

We’ll ripen out of season.

 

We solidify. Crumble. They tasted

so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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