Fall 2004 • Vol. XXVI No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2004 |

Pomme Prisonniere

Five years to the hour since I was a bride, we eat wood mushrooms from the same damp atmosphere that brought our tongues out of the dark and into each other's mouths. Some nights, my lips are a small red bonfire. Other nights, they frost over the mattress, the color of ice-dew. Do not imagine I am an external thinker or that I have lost the taste for fat snails in butter. The wave and stasis of loving can strip a whelk, hungry for the curve of a private afternoon. But tonight, candlelight ignites my agate earrings. And when, for dessert, our waiter brings calvados, two glasses on the house, I feel the whole apple tree in my mouth. Leaves that unfold and flower against the tailbone. Roots that hold fast to our tongues and join them together. All this, from a single fruit grown in a bottle: pomme prisonniere. Like a body, floating knees to chest, head angled down as it holds its breath in delicious agony. And that, my love, is how I keep my stem fro

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By Tenaya Darlington

Five years to the hour since I was a bride, we eat wood mushrooms from the same damp atmosphere that brought our tongues out of the dark and into each […]

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