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



shoulder tattoo