We Call It Love
We call it love - this hidden orchard path
twilit figs have fallen near
to rest, where we stroll and speak and listen
‘til the fruit is sapped, youthful sins confessed
bundled with twigs, themselves detached
resembling branches with complimentary
scars left groping floor-shadows:
those of lustful hop-scotch-jigsaws;
those of the faint whimper heard in morning
as fresh fades to rot; of dawn-kissed figs molting;
of a daughter crying
to the barren nursery while mother
plans forever unaffordable furnishings.
We call it love - this lonely
strip-mall path followed, leading
to just another lost-in-the mail acceptance letter
to just another
lost-in-the-scuffle’s
paternal subjugate,
with love.
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