slice

there are moments

(when i’ve eaten

the ripe sunshine

and swollen into

balloon- like being)

my body buzzes

with soft

energy

(like the vermillion beating

of a hummingbird’s

wings)

-- it is then i can taste it,

delicious and full,

the sweet juice of it dripping

sticky down my chin

(think orange,

think citrus, pure)

--it is then i can hear it,

the breathing of my heart

which pushes back against

all things night

(inviting in only

black velvet bats to flutter

in its gothic bowers)

--it is then i can touch it,

what it is like to be human,

to want more than is your right,

to long for everything,

to be so close to nothing

(like running your fingers

along the branches of pine needles)

death closes swiftly upon

small bodies,

opening them like drawers

to crack in the

star-crusted universe

before ramming

blackness shut;

it is this paradox—

of wanting much more

than my delicate flesh

can hold,

of being so full of life

i'd burst to eat more

(but feed me anyways

because--!)

the smell of life

is fresh rye bread,

baked early in the morning—

sour and soft,

promising goodness and

wholeness—

chew it thoughtfully,

it is this slice

given

and nothing more.