An older poem of mine, with the name of this month


I concoct a collage of mulled spices to arouse
a numb tongue. It’s paralyzed. My pendulum
that used to sway.  How it fluctuates

from disengaged doorknob dangling
to bronze fruit. Glossily, brazenly
begging to be picked.  Better than

sticking my head in the oven. Too morbid. Blue flames
heat the samovar and I feel the steamy contours.
Sizzling beads.  Sugar and spice and silt

a dark residue in the bottom of a mug. A numb tongue
bleating. Needing to be unfrosted. Pierced. Decorated
ornately as white paper in a snowflake cutting contest.

Catch this on your tongue. A blade
creating tiny confetti. Bronze fruit begging to be
a bomb.  Shiny words that sway

with a heavy rhythm. With a heady flavor
like spiced, spiked tea. Savory cinnamon, clove, and orange zest
sparkling on my tongue.  Arousing the pendulum.