Cinnamon
3/28/10 • Categorized as Food Poetrythe bowl of fruit
on our kitchen table
rots.
the first frost
came this morning—
the air is metallic
aching teeth,
twiggy fingers freeze
and break.
everything tastes
like cinnamon,
like soil.
things will collect
a dank musk:
forget them.
accept the frozen
water pump,
drink the silted water—
cry.
Written by guest poet Sarah Marcus.
