Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

pear

the speed of light
being what it is
 
your whole body
is afterimage,
 
the entire pale
cello of you crossing
 
then uncrossing your legs–
the whole wilderness of you
 
a sudden and exact history,
the sex in the poem of you
 
a pulling apart
of libraries for the right ache
 
between words.
 
the speed of light being
what it is
 
a touch undoes the folklore
as with any spell.
 
a bite into your shoulder
a loose knuckle grazing your hip
 
and the open pear of
your body
 
turns, a bell tolling
in technicolor,
 
pleads
be long, be long
 
to the infinitesimal wedge
of paleperfect nothing
 
between nerve ending
and fingertip.
 
a joint cracks
as you clench then unclose your fist
 
and I imagine I’ve just
snapped the stem
 
off a pear
as if I were beheading sadness.
 
I smile
and you see it
 
only too late
the speed of light
 
being what it is
I am doing something else
 
with my lips
now
 
 
Anton Frost has appeared in Verdad, Parcel, The Bacon Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Michigan.

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Categories: Poetry

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