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.

Author

Margery Hannah

“A writer writes, aways.” (Larry Donner, Throw Mama from the Train) The musings of Margery Hannah, a multi-genre writer, on an array of subject matter through a literary lens. Every raindrop has a story.

View all posts