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Pica
by Jon Tribble
The world’s flavors
entice,
tease desire from a
tongue
whose memory is of chalk
and playing fields,
blackboard oceans
misting the fine white
dust like
spray against the stony
shore,
pale green knowledge for
the sharpened cue
snapping
the yellow point of the
triangle
of spheres to attention
and scattershot,
marking the enameled
white ball
with a kiss of dry
grass.
The pencil’s meal of
slick
yellow skin slipping,
lodged
between the edges of
teeth
like the nagging whine
of wheel
bearings catching every
second
or third turn, the chewy
splinter
of wood gumming its way
to an almost-gluey mass
the kin
of paper and dry leaf
when the tang
of chlorophyll is lost,
the flat clean
clot of gray wincing
taste to shuddering
hunger leaded heavy with
need
like a straight line,
like a hammer
kissing a nail flush
with the board.
But ash is desire’s true
answer,
ash the burning of the
world
in twilight to dusk, ash
consuming
bread and bone and twig
and brick
like a cry or creak or
knock or whisper
feeds silence’s flame,
cold ash filling
the mouth like a whimper
or punch
or kiss can take the
breath away. |