TIBI DABO

It doesn’t hurt, is merely present,

the long, longing shadow of your absence.

I dig the worm out of the still firm pear
pre-bite, with a thumbnail stained yellow

from the turmeric rice I made last night.

The juices of the pear, though insipid sweet,

sour my cuticle, irritate the nail bed.

In my mouth the floury, crystalline flesh

barricades itself against my tongue

in a cracked tooth that I can’t afford to fix.

It doesn’t hurt, is merely present.

The juices of the pear, though insipid sweet

are tart to the tongue, puckers gums,

vegetable snow stolen from a grub.

Mine now, the size of a clenched fist, heart,

gorging until the juice runs down my chin.