Thursday, June 3, 2010

Ripe

I do not like the way a metaphor smells
   when it has sat around on the counter
   so long that the meaning begins to puddle
   in the bottom of the bag, and the form of it
   begins to grow fuzzy with green
   or orange mildew.

But before that, when it has been around
   just long enough to go a bit sour
   and has the tang of grapes turning
   to wine on the stems; when the skin
   loosens and the juicy fruitness trickles easily
   down your throat, with only a little
   mushy bite —

those are the metaphors that speak
   of warm days in summer,
   and watermelon on the table
   and the phone sitting silent for hours or weeks
   when you wish it wouldn't.

Those are the metaphors that give you
   an uncomfortable feeling
   in your stomach, but only just enough
   that you notice
   and remember it afterwards.

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