I gnaw the flesh of a poem, tearing it
from the bone.  My teeth rip
into the juicy meat.  I chew slowly, savoring
each bite, rolling the sweet umami on my tongue,
sucking the juice from every morsel.  One bite,
a pause to consider the flavor, and then another.
Slowly, I devour, tidbit by tidbit, the whole poem,
then suck the long curved bone until it is as white
as if it had lain on the desert for years.
Though may take months to consume
the entire carcass of the book, my mouth waters
at the prospect of such prolonged delight.

The next book may be a pear tree.
I could pluck a single pear, hold
its smooth curved, ripe body and examine
the pattern of its speckled skin.  The shape
pleases me.  I caress it and admire its taper.
When I bite into it, it squirts; juice runs
down my chin.  And the stone cells—such strange
and inviting texture.  Leisurely, with careful attention,
I sample mouthfuls of pear poem, eating it
down to the stem and seeds.  The rest of the tree
remains, full of pears.  They blush in summer light
and whisper my name.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090121-1107-1b

This is a brand new poem.  Click the "broadside image" to view it larger.