Published at Softblow
No one ever told me I was matter.
I listened closely. I was never
heard. The ghosts who kill themselves become
ghosts of ghosts.
That is what I see
behind me in the mirror. That is why
I have not braked
to let anyone cross in front of me
for quite some time.
Goodness is a Fruit
and thus never a lonely
business. Anther, meet stigma. Meet on
the furry legs of bumblebees or
marvelous currents of air. Meet the other
on the other side of the moon, clouds drifting,
hushed sheets. I rose higher still when you
cracked me open and used both thumbs
to coax every luscious drop
into flowing. I begged you not to despise
what comes so easily to your hand.