This is just sayin’

By Ivonne Arias
 

Forgive me
I’ve grown suspicious—
though sweet
and though cold,

did you actually
save
icebox plums for breakfast?

Pitted against other fare,
they’re a pale meal.

Veined flesh
of an indecisive hue between yellow and tan
a stone’s throw away
from prune territory.
Maybe their appeals are beyond skin and pulp.

Will ‘yum’—car-loads of flavor—
bud forth between juices
with each mouthful?

It makes for delicious poetry,
but breakfast’s hardly the place.
 


 

Back to Poetry.
 
Back to Issue 3.