Yield

A bitter taste
an after taste
He wants me to swallow

He holds my mouth open with Popsicle sticks
Over and over he examines it 

The sticks prick my strawberry
tongue until moon dents appear 

apples and oranges now taste
the same as the aged hair lemon on the window 

pane. I think an unaccomplished thought 

as fresh fruit fail against the stench
of rot. Even the flies outside choose not the hair

on the lemons, but you, my dear, are 

man of women.
Of hasty eyes 

Unmeaning chatter
maggots’ prize 

Of strawberry oppression and dirty
used sticks.

Text and Image © Margery Hannah 2023. All Rights Reserved