halved—my heart, so easy
the image arising full 
in my mouth
as I bite back, 

biting—sweet juice
running, gazing as I do 
into the green monsoon: trees 
moving in sudden rain. 

Look how red 
the fruit is—parsed among 
green leaves, just near
blooms, throaty bells—the foxtail’s
mouths opened wide. 

What cries, so dramatic—
our red ripe angers. How sweet
even they must seem 
after death. 

Pick them:
your duplicity, this poem—
a brilliant red door
behind it, you become
shadow again, lovely...
ghost I met
restored to ghost.
Close the door— 

I eat strawberries
swallow each red 
beauty. Your pulp 
still in my teeth.

I warned you about
me: touching
my wings, you did not
at first
find me difficult.
I was soft
timbre in your
bones:  I was breath
and broke open 
pleasantly in your mouth 

That’s what spirit
does  Then, eventually
my fear:  the kidskin
feel   my wings
ribbed, abrupt   unfurling
a Harley Davidson   jacket 

errant and rubbing           wounded, edges
     rubbed                               It always goes
      deeper                               the best things
         anyway                               Like 

prayer: so lovely, so rapacious so asking so
desperate so sated so netted so intricate so
tiring so immediate so lasting so ponderous so
lit like winged gold silvered and rubbed between
your palms.

-- Amy Pence