If I were a nectarine
would you be happy?
You, with your permanent press shirt
your dusty brown loafers with the pennies missing
you could bite down on me and
the juice would run down the edges of your moustache and
drip down
onto your heart.
Your shirt would be stained with me
as I am stained with you
my darling, my honeydew
if I were a nectarine.
If I were an orange
would you be happy?
You could peel off my skin!
You could stand in some farmer's yard
You could steal me
You could take advantage of the night to
pluck me, boldly
from some farmer's tree; I would taste the sweeter
for being forbidden fruit
as do you
my darling, my kumquat
my overripe grapefruit too long on the limb
my Tom.
If I were a button—not a fruit—
a button
missing off your precious permanent press shirt
and you found me
wedged
between the stairway and a pair of your wife's navy blue pumps
you could bite me
you could bite down so hard you would break your tooth
as I have been broken, by you
my darling, my broken toothed angel
my faulty, irregular lover
my Torn.
If I were a me,
a me,
me with big teeth and red sweater and
hair the color of thousand island dressing,
a feminist, a rhubarb,
would you be happy?
You could bite into my fuzzy neck
and the juice would run down to my sweater but
would you sit down with me
with the silence so big it's a sound
and the wanting so big it's a weight
that when I stand up
there's that rush of downward stickiness
as I want to melt, with you
my darling, my twotiming truffle
my bitter melon
my Tom.
CAROLYN CIREEDON