DECEMBER
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.
