I would take
A fresh artichoke heart,
And adhere it in a fresh-
Water river. I would come along,
Then, as a child, and pick me,
Wadded into tin foil and thrown into
A twig fire. Even as a child, I knew, water
Was too good to be true . I mean, water’s synonyms
Wave me to death, like a quickly non-living scrape of teeth.

I would leave
An old artichoke’s many-heart,
And melt, in a flash-tagged what
Ever, water, river. Me comes along,
Screech, Me? And picks me. Since
Cursing God doesn’t work, F*** Me,
Folded into whipped cream, gotta love what
Keeps you alive, gotta love a quicking, twin toothless.
I sense more Gemini’s are birthing, this month, teeth, regardless.

I might would
Live, an artichoke’s heart,
And flame into being, fanged,
As usual, if I Could melt memories,
Not physicalities. Ok, I was molested in
The Seventies, but not too bad, mostly high-jinxed
Paternal sibling’s older friends, or neighbor boys’ fate instructions,
I think I choose .. not anything, but all of where I was. Placement is

The problem. I shouldn’t be single; I should be an artichoke’s heart.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 2/7/10