Category: poetry

I hold the chocolate-chip as if a coin from some dead altar, its crust a thin, papery epidermis scored with fossil chips. They glitter like teeth, embers trapped in crystallized sugar; beneath that shell a warm cavity yawns, brown sugar and molasses conspiring there in clandestine whisper, a soft counsel of heat. I might rend … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Cookie in the Icebox, v.3 (a.k.a. My Relationship with a Cookie, v.6)

I hold the cookie like a coin pried from a grave. Its skin is paper; chips sit like fossil teeth. They glint — dull embers in brittle sugar. Beneath: a warm hollow where molasses whispers. One bite would split it open, spill its secret. Violence buries; devouring is a small grave. I nibble instead, ceremonial, … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Cookie in the Icebox, v.2 (a.k.a. My Relationship with a Cookie, v.5)

Note: I've gone in a darker directions and found some different takes... more to follow after... I hold the chocolate-chip cookie like a coin from a grave —its crust a dry, papery skin, scored with tiny fossil chips.They glitter as if with teeth, dull embers caught in brittle sugar.Beneath that shell I imagine a warm, … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – My Relationship with a Cookie, v.4 – Retitled -> The Cookie in the Icebox

I study this chocolate-chip thing on the plate, its surface a brittle grammar with chips of gold. You can see only a few bright truths at first — crumb constellations clinging to the shell. What the inside must hold: slow heat, brown sugar hymns, a small dark architecture of salt and memory. If I tear … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – My Relationship with a Cookie, v.3

Study the chocolate-chip cookie — a thin, hard planet of sugar. On its skin, chips glint like constellations; beneath, a warmer gravity. I could bite deep and erase the softened center, or nibble forever and never hear the single true note it keeps for itself. So I wrap a corner in foil, ladle fragments into … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – My Relationship with a Cookie, v.2

Schooltime in early autumn;the playground is full but hollow,the out-of-bounds field calls, more tempting. The field bristles with burrs and the hush of dying grass,yet the apple tree insists, irresistible and small. We climb to be kings on the age-old tree,claiming crowns from the highest, wind-scarred branches. Power is kept in an arsenal of apples—tokens … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Apple Tree, v.5

Schooltime in early autumnthe playground is full butthe out-of-bounds field calls, more tempting. The field bristles with burrs,yet the apple tree remains irresistible We race to be kings on the age-old treeclaiming crowns from the highest branches Power is kept in an arsenal of applesall glossy, ripe, but oddly inedible. Old ogres and crones patrol … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Apple Tree, v.4

Early autumn—school bell, a playground clotted with jackets.The out-of-bounds field bristles with burrs; yet the low apple tree wins us.Its limbs hang like small promises. We climb to become kings, to make crowns of high, wind-thin branches,counting power not in coins but in apples—bright, lacquered tokens—ripe only in the dreaming tongue; never for the mouth. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Apple Tree, v.3

Schooltime in early autumn—the playground full, but the out-of-bounds field calls.Bristling with burrs, it calls; still, the apple tree wins. We race to be kings in the age-old tree,claiming the highest, trembling boughs.Power is counted in an arsenal of apples—ripe in look, not in bite. Ogres and crones pace the margins; some flee.The boldest stay: … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – The Apple Tree, v.2