when we crush between our
sticky fingers all that we've
done : it smells of a fruit
no one has a name for.
We have no name for.
In the mornings we carry the succor
in the backs of our mouths, safe for later.
We talk to the sky in made-up tongues.
In made-up tongues we rabble and gobble
and hunt each other for the right words:
to glut, to skewer, to fuck. We know the names
we call each other but no one else does.
The pulp between us: silken, seeded,
suited. We warble together to hear
our choked songs when we forget
how to speak.
Tamara Jobe lives somewhere in the South, tending horses and writing poems. She also edits Figroot Press.