An older poem of mine, with the name of this month
DECEMBER
I concoct a collage of mulled spices to arousea numb tongue. It’s paralyzed. My pendulumthat used to sway. How it fluctuates
from disengaged doorknob danglingto bronze fruit. Glossily, brazenlybegging to be picked. Better than
sticking my head in the oven. Too morbid. Blue flamesheat the samovar and I feel the steamy contours.Sizzling beads. Sugar and spice and silt
a dark residue in the bottom of a mug. A numb tonguebleating. Needing to be unfrosted. Pierced. Decoratedornately as white paper in a snowflake cutting contest.
Catch this on your tongue. A bladecreating tiny confetti. Bronze fruit begging to bea bomb. Shiny words that sway
with a heavy rhythm. With a heady flavorlike spiced, spiked tea. Savory cinnamon, clove, and orange zestsparkling on my tongue. Arousing the pendulum.
I concoct a collage of mulled spices to arousea numb tongue. It’s paralyzed. My pendulumthat used to sway. How it fluctuates
from disengaged doorknob danglingto bronze fruit. Glossily, brazenlybegging to be picked. Better than
sticking my head in the oven. Too morbid. Blue flamesheat the samovar and I feel the steamy contours.Sizzling beads. Sugar and spice and silt
a dark residue in the bottom of a mug. A numb tonguebleating. Needing to be unfrosted. Pierced. Decoratedornately as white paper in a snowflake cutting contest.
Catch this on your tongue. A bladecreating tiny confetti. Bronze fruit begging to bea bomb. Shiny words that sway
with a heavy rhythm. With a heady flavorlike spiced, spiked tea. Savory cinnamon, clove, and orange zestsparkling on my tongue. Arousing the pendulum.
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