Poetry
by Alethea Eason
Taste These Fruits
by Alethea Eason and Donna Kuhn
I remember, remember
running,
his cigarette speaking, his robin’s
smell,
lips, his egg, these fruits, sweet juice
stealing tongue
remember, remember him,
don’t hands, tongue touching stone,
stealing blue egg,
warm feather, stones on grass,
don’t taste body, palms touching crime,
don’t, my grass, my blue eyes
don’t remember body night,
don’t remember green, don’t taste fruit
chance lips, warm perfect palms,
another running crime touching him free
committed hand gave without stealing
without nectarine, his warm blue tree
and feather,
remember sand, remember apricot
don’t,
my sweet, taste these fruit
The Hidden Bone
there is a bone
in the wilderness
etched with my name
small scratches on the underside
hidden with mud and twigs
the rain has fallen there
in and out of summer
the brilliant summer
has baked it brittle and clean
a fire, a torrent, sweeps
across from fir to pine
but the bone remains, a wrinkle
in the sunlight
Precession
The ice age will
not begin
until there is a reason.
The glaciers and the rubble
are not headlines yet.
In the green belt
our eyes hold steady as Polaris.
It is warm,
and our deaths only silhouettes
in the running water.
We put our feet
in the cold stream
and think about
the length of summer.
We thirst.
our mouths upon the creek.
We drink and drink.
Winter Rose
I am the rose
opening blood red petals
that grip my small furled heart,
layered like laquered nails over the
nectar,
hiding from the lips of the sun
the petals hold off the kiss,
but the breath of the blue day
tears open my flowering face,
petal after petal become ruby tongues
my heart wants to find shade with the
night,
to hide from the slant of winter's weak
sun,
but the rose is a stubborn blossom
and bleeds in the cold dry air
