Wednesday, September 14, 2011
“

You’re a tooth I tongue and tongue,
tasting blood as you loosen,

testing the sweet root of the hole.
The shudder and catch, the god spit,

and though I dip the bone in gold,
no lover wants to wear a necklace

of you. Carry you in my pocket
and you smolder. Sow the field with you

and you sprout in hours, white tips
thrusting through the meal soil—

one book says a bean pushes its husk
away, hauling the used body to the surface;

one book says the army is born whole,
fingers scratching toward any light.

” Sandra Beasley, “The Story of My Family” (via awritersruminations)
Posted at 1:01 PM 99 notes Reblogged from awritersruminations Tags: Sandra Beasley poetry

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