apple woman

A hummingbird is  etched

at the nape of my neck

 below a storm of hair

between  a shiver of shoulders.

She hovers like a tiny moon

sipping cruets of  honeysuckle.

My thoughts are  a cutlass of emotion,

a chisel of shame or the begging

tongue of a starving feral.

Outside pink berries perch on pale slopes

inside  a  harvest of  Robin’s eggs,

cached safe from the graze of sharp

teeth slicing through a sky blue dress.

My apple heart  harbors  man

whose anger is a ligature winding.

Its beat is  the warm river of release

or a bleed across across a torn canvas

 

 

tatuajestatua