"Notes on Succulence"
Some could die of this: the burn
within it.
It struck me this morning in the buttery cut
roses, exo-petals tinged to the brink of wilting,
scent a kind of carnage tucked in gloved
and weakening fists.
Nothing ever gleamed like this.
Not to be confused with opulence
nor corpulence. Not to be hoarded in a purse
lacking vinyl lining.
At noon I saw it in the apple’s soft spot,
smelled it in the sweet of vinegar.
After work I felt it in the soap froth
at the barber shop.
It erupts from the props of still lives.
It stews the first drop of decay
whose fissures splay like frost, unseen beneath
the headiness,
under the vulgar,
the creeping rot for which
the war was fought.
© 2008 Sarah J. Sloat
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