Vector8 Journals

Monday, October 25, 2004

Poems by Esther Morgan

From "Beyond Calling Distance" by Esther Morgan


She's lost a word
and searches for it everywhere -
behind the sofa, at the back
of dusty cupboards and drawers.
She picks through the buzzing rubbish sacks.

Under the carpet she finds lots of others
she'd forgotten she'd swept there,
but not the one she's looking for.
The trouble is it's small - only two letters -
though no less valuable for that.

She stands racking her brains
for the last time she used it
but all that comes to mind
are failed attempts
when her mouth was full

of someone else's tongue.


I like the way they fit the palm -
their plump Buddha weight,
the sly squeeze for ripeness,
the clean slit of the knife,
the soft suck
as you twist the halves apart,
the thick skin peeling easily.
Naked, they're slippery as soap.

I serve them for myself
sliced and fanned
on white bone china
glistening with olive oil,
or I fill the smooth hollow
with sharp vinaigrette
scooping out
the pale, buttery flesh.

Every diet you've ever read
strictly forbids them.

ps: I, ej, hate avocados.

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