by Glen Martin Fitch
My palm fits bulge to curve.
So heavy, firm,
your freckled skin conceals
a softer spot.
Your spicy scent
betrays a hint of rot.
Your pentagram
protects the magic germ.
I pull you close
to view your nether side.
I fear I'll find
a flaw or wound or scar.
Below I spy
the sun-shy withered star.
Within the past and future both reside.
Once grateful hunters
asked the beasts they'd slain
to grant them their forgiveness
with a prayer.
Just so I close my eyes.
My teeth I bare.
My body, breed and spirit
to maintain,
I lick my lips with poison.
I prepare for gritty,
crisp and gushious
bursts of pear.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011