all that’s left in my fruit box,
reds, orange, purple from watermelon
radish, roasted carrots, grapes, cherry
the brown bottom of the box.
into the butt.
what? this is poetry.
don’t roll your eyes at me.
I’m a god damn luminary.
the necropolis doesn’t have
nearly enough bones laying around.
take out your skinning knife, honey.
let’s see what we can do about this
my brain feels broken.
I find myself moved to tears too
& others. most days.
too many things were coming to me;
I had to put down the poetry
& write some.