Body Market

Body Market

I heard my body cry:
Won’t you come by?
Come buy—
my imperfect desire:
I must have you,
grasp my succulent fruit—

bletted quinces,
spotted peaches,
come buy, come buy
my pretty goblins tell me,
my carnal carrions cry.

No transgression here.
Peel away my skin.
O guiltless release!
Taste me and try.

I sucked and licked the more
then threw the tasteless rind away.
The poisoned pomegranate
I did pluck,
did chastely suck
then swallowed bitter poppy broth.

Tongue it, bite it.
Tuck the seeds beneath my skeins
of tussled spider-silk.
Ignore the blood-red cherry stain,
like the new grave
we never, we wanted, to crave.

The dead live naked
just as we ought,
barren, fruitless,
safe from all harm.

While we’re alive,
we’re under a charm.
We’ll revel in that goblin fruit,
though you lie shaking in my arms.
Oh, that we’d never tasted the fruit.
My body wanes.
You’re now my gibbous,
my seedless Almost.