A reminder to taste
life. A gritty pressure
she climbs the old freight
house stairs—fair trade
and organic maybe, these coffee beans
he roasts are not grown locally
in some Minnesota backyard. A transplant,
she will never be as sustainable
as those local boys
she’s chased into bars, ditches,
haystacks, church
basements, the mouth
of the Mississippi. She’s a trickle
trying to cut a figure
worth restoring. Lime
was her father’s choice.
I wish I liked the taste
of pomegranate seeds
in a dish, would become
an object of seasonal fertility,
object of someone’s desire,
if I could only dismiss
the sour burning
on my tongue.
I cannot. He kisses me—
my lips still stinging
from the pulp—full
on the mouth. I wish
I could hold onto
the taste, know it
pleases and frightens
all the senses,
know it signals
a message within:
This is going to be harder than you think, this acquiring
a resistance to his taste.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 