the leaves read feverish and my hipbones blush. They fatten and sink in their little horns.
I want the noodle of honey I read once. I could die to slurp that odd noodle, sinking my tea leaves down or stuffing the honey bear up.
There is something to tasting like there is something to touching-- the age of an avocado, the flth of summer on a tomato husk. You have to feel one wrinkle.
I am erupted. A hot spring, I shake loose like a chair-- watch my hair grow out its hay.
I wish I could go quiet like a baby river.
I want to paint it red, finger around the empty with red paint-- my two red fingers riding the lines, brighting them.
The light goes tinsel and I thread a want-- speak you my hands.
They say people like me river in myths to simply water their mouths.
I am mad with snow, a truss riddled with peach skin. Look how I fur. I think I want to be less like the land and more like a girl wearing the land. I want to die like a mineral and rise midday.
I earth a hate and tree a decadence-- if only for some chocolate cake.
Fork my tongue. See how I glow.
Juice is full. I beat it like a plum, beg for simple syrup. Just some sweet weight.
-- Stevie Belchak divides her time between Northampton, MA, and San Francisco, CA. An MFA candidate at UMASS Amherst, she was a recent finalist for the Center for Book Arts Poetry Chapbook Contest (2018) and is a staff reader for jubilat.