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By M.C. St. John
In the living room, the streetlight
found me peeling artichokes
in a black dish.
One leaf after another from the cold
water, to the fingers, to the teeth,
sucking the green flesh and dropping them,
one by one,
collecting in a culvert next to my heart.
Where is the heart?
I keep pulling leaves
to more leaves.
Outside, moths and mosquitos
pang against the light
in a good fluttering frenzy.
The leaves outside shift,
revealing new spots of soft earth.
I take in these details.
I wish I didn’t.
God, to be a spoken man
merely eating artichokes
past midnight, the motions
meaning exactly what they are.
I look at those insects, so crass
in their want for warmth
and I’m jealous.
Inside, the last leaf gives to the coarse
of the choke, the chaff that grates
the tongue—the heart,
the heart is underneath.
It must be. It has to be.
I fondle the edge to lift and see,
but my eyes remain on the dish,
and the spent pile
I’ve left behind.
#Unreal #Poem #Valentine'sDay #Leaves #Jealousy #Heart
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