Picking sorrel with bare hands,
the fine, red velvet fur everytime tickles
gently, harmlessly, then as you sit with them,
the red fruit sweetly scented of Christmas
piled high in a silver bowl, you seed them.
And after the hundredth one had passed,
the same as all the ones that came before,
You’d feel that familiar sting. It is love.
A microscope might reveal the tiny scratches
by the tens; wounds their red claws had dealt
to your knowing hands, adding spice still
to the iron pot as it comes to boiling red
sugar too, bobbing, bubbling with their dead
But still, you would not repent!
Nor I (But for feeding flies fat as raisins
on the discarded seeds) drinking
the juice, blood-red, sticky-sweet
till it runs down my elbows and drips
around feet. Shocked? But didn’t you know?
No? Making sorrel is dirty business!
By
Marissa A Scott
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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wow! almost like a suicidal effort here, all but for the dredges of stuff that, other than minus the pain, you've got a euthenasia here which is quite acceptable. Lovely build up and smooth finish,
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I love it! You had my attention as I was captured by each word you wrote here. I can't say that one line was better than another. And the end was such a kicker. Thank you for sharing these vivid images with me and keep writing poet.
seamaiden ♥
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This is great!Thanks for the laugh!
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