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All the men I want are fallen fruit, not so much forbidden, as inadvisable to the salubrious a tad fermented a worm burrowing through dark spots and dull skin Not looking to play savior I am so fabulously saved, like red wine on a white shirt, like seeds weeping into black dirt, like a number in my phone I never called Do I want to be beneath the tree soft and tired like holed-up holy fruit I'm not addicted, but it's my favorite kind The stuff that's started to live why does live mean leave Why do I always compare the hairs on your chest to winter vines Why do I crave to make kiddush over your body Sinking deeper into the earth hope a distant, circling bird my mouth comes upon you hungry, tasteless animal But in reality, I turn the pages of the prayer book and wonder if I'm rotten 
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