I’ve been peeling poetry

From my fingers, from my lips

I’ve tugged at the toughness in an effort, quiet & low,

To regain the sweetness below

Some girlish guile & some softness

But beneath, I discover, I’m old,

Dried out, I’ve grown stringy & thick

I’ve plumped & shriveled & become bland

All the sugar & spice of me

Is poured out & long faded, not even 

A hint of succor remains

My tongue no longer smacks 

Of sap. I’m that old tree, tapped once too many

Spring runs in on Winter’s deathpose curl, its spine split 

But I, I am the creak of dead limbs

Unbudding & cold & grey & stoic

Backlit by the creeping, feral sun

How is this a thing of beauty?

The dropped peelings bunched about

On this sleeping ground—

Will I ever

Wake & sweeten again?

Can the dead live again? 


4 thoughts on “Peeling

  1. Ick. How incredibly Canadian of me to now be worried that that reply sounded rather harsh. I didnt mean that to come off as rude. Truly. I suppose it’s not usual for anyone to comment on my writing tho you know, we write, and inevitably somewhere along the way, someone may be provoked into ‘wondering’ because of it. So I’m glad it made you wonder.


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