Some day I’ll delve into all those notebooks I wrote while waiting for buses in San Francisco, but this isn’t from very long ago. It’s actually from an exercise I did at that workshop a few weeks ago. We were to write a poem about our favorite food. I just want to say that I used to be a poet, but long ago I decided that I was actually not very good at it, and as much as I still enjoy reading it, any attempts I made at writing it just made me itch.
Chocolate
Bitter river
stopped,
cooled into
dark squares,
chopped into chips,
dripped halfway over
a macaroon,
my teeth break
into
you wherever you are
my teeth break in
but my tongue is the
one that unlocks
the sacred pull and swoon
of where you were born,
cloves, currants, and wine.
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