cannibals.

her blue eyes are

littered with

pillow cases of candy and

star wars movies,

she is well

aged

in her thirties

and has run

most of her devils in to the

ground, her protracted seasons

where just

sweet tarts and mounds

of industrious

rage released

as love love, and there she

has stayed,

taunting all comers

to take their

best last shot,

the past remains re-glued and

untouchable,

there sitting on her

day bed,

her high school journal

labeled journal

and her poetry

labeled poetry, then,

now

in a box under that muffled bed-

but this is not about her

cubical life, it is about the

orchards,

10 miles

from her apartment, her

mothers house,

so close to the

farmers market-

its about

her sheets, her bath robe her

long, empty Sundays, its about her

not being

with me, its about me.