These teeth want to break the skin
of a plum
and drown
in the slow washing juices.
---------------------------------
Two poems of William Carlos Williams have been much in my mind lately.
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
To a Poor Old Woman
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her
You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand
Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her
These two poems running through my head have inspired the most horrid craving for a single tense, liquid plum.
Thus my little poem at the beginning, which defies me for a title. As it gives me no ideas, I'm threatening to call it something melodramatic ("Desire"), something banal ("These Teeth"), or something creepy ("Mastication"). I cannot, however, bring myself to make good on any of these threats, and I think the poem knows this.
If you happen to meet my poem on the street (it is little; you might not even see it), please be sure to ask after its name.
Posted by stephanie at June 15, 2006 04:47 PM | TrackBack