Speak to me of passion.


Serve up the sweet slices,

alien fruit in its liquored blood,

stark and fragrant on the plate,

swift-fire certain in the mouth.


Fan up the guttering torches.


A touch, a glance,

a dark-induced fever clutches my heart

like the language of cellos.

My bare stone rooms grow warm.


I have been a foolish wanton,


baiting the priest-birds

with the bread of my flesh,

ringing the desperate bells,

impaled on the spikes of the lily.


Wake me from my funeral,


from this night-poisoned fugue.

I have entered the church unaware.

Lay me down on the altar of silk

and sacrifice me with a kiss.



Candles kneel in their dishes,

praying on the altar of fruit and knives.

We are one house by the marcasite sea,

one fortress rising bone on bone.


I fall from grace into ecstasy,

taste blood and oranges, the deep salt shock

of your wounded finger, nicked in the carving.

One red pearl sings like a choir on my tongue.


Moon-white blade releases tentative scarlet –

dark flavor of communion, of sugar and stones –

mocking the sweet, marble-skinned divinity of pears.

The luminous cloth is dotted like a bridal sheet.



Now I dwell in the realm of the body,

in honeyed nights, a garden grown wild.

Breasts are moons of vast holiness,

or planets, weighed and worshipped.


I am enchanted by the glow of the long bones,

the ankles’ rolling machinery,

toes like prayer beads, milky opals,

or stars among the vines and flowers.


Pressed to the silks, I’m a scrapbook rose,

a memento in the heavy dark.

I am sweet like melon, basic as seawater,

A velvet pelt, stretched and petted.


Like shadows, I devour you.


e.yon/2002/Fruit & Bones chapbook