L.M. Myers
Not the stone, the cyanide center of love
nestled between soon-to-split loyalties,
the mystery of sweetness from poison,
the secret tooth-chipping deceit of jam.
Nor kindling for men’s damp heartwood, despite
all honor due the feminine virtues:
the New World, just-baked bread scent of her neck,
the unspoiled apple terroir of her mouth.
Not the burnished rose-glow of August fruit,
this fresh October sorrow—soft, muted
in gray-blanched capitulation, leaf-ash
of summer, fallen fire: smoulder on.