I will never be ripe in the fields
again. By ripe I mean fallen
from the tree. Light enough
for you to hurl from the meadow
so hard it sinks your eyes
shut. Soft enough your touch
alone is a bruise I wear
like a blanket, a shawl
for prayer. I am more pit
than flesh now. Nectar
and a mouthful of seeds.
I will never be the taste
crashing your tongue like waves,
but when you think of me,
you’ll pucker still.
Heather Cox edits the online literary magazine Ghost Ocean and the handmade chapbook press Tree Light Books. Heather's work appears or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Indiana Review, Threadcount, Nightblock, Pinwheel, and elsewhere. Heather is the recipient of a Luminarts Fellowship and the author of two forthcoming chapbooks, Mole People (BatCat, 2016) and Magnificent Desolation (Finishing Line, 2016). Heather lives in Colorado with her wife and their two dogs and can be found online at looklookhere.tumblr.com.