Week 16, Improv 1

From a selection by A.J. Collins

"But to say"

first something about the shoes wouldn’t be right.

The whole thing started with sunrise, getting there,

a broken fog sifting birch limbs, an owl tucked, full of shrews,


-----
But to begin a story with the end
wouldn’t be right. Sure, it would smell
of tangerines, and you could imagine
your own fingertips circling those peels,
your tiny tips dipping to dents. But no
manner of strength of knuckles during
ripping could satiate that frenzied bloodlust
as you pop that first peel between teeth,
your tongue bobbing it to mouth-roof.
Your family physician warns of pesticides
and congeniality, but nothing quite says
Fuck you like licking fruit tendons off
the underbelly of your wrist, trails of that
sickening yellow-orange rivering your cheek.