Pink pea


Friday, April 03, 2015


I pinch it between my thumb

And forefinger

As if a pink pea,

A pea that grows hard

With heat, not soft

And drips wet if I

Pinch too much,

A juice I lick

And let linger

On my lips,

Each sip rich

Not like wine or honey

Though I get inebriated by it

And think it just as sweet,

Pumping the curved surface

Between it

So as to drink even more


I live for the feel of this,

For the hot or cold

The hard or soft,

The sweet or bitter of it,

Aching for what makes me ache

Needing to touch or taste

All that I am told I should not,

The fire on the stove,

Things that would make me blind,

The forbidden fruit,

The pink pea that oozes juice

Only I think of as sweet

To covet what the Bible says

I should not,

To feel and in turn be felt

By all there is

And all there will ever be.




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