[a word for sadness that dwells in the small of the back]
stuck in the moonstruck knot of my lower lumbar.
behold how much wood is kindled —
hard-pressed to diamond but, more likely, coal.
by how small a fire —
whenever, acrid, Mercury’s retrograde aftertaste drips down the back of the throat.
and the tongue is a fire —
not by bread’s breaking of.
malum the fruit, but not an apple.
— shriveled figs look like I don’t know what —
hearts can be eaten, but not alone.about the author