by Mary Lou Buschi
Slice the top with a sharp blade.
Rip the flesh down the side.
Pop the seeds from the neat nest.
Watch as they bleed on to their fingertips.
Instruct them to lift the seeds
to their tongues.
Ask, what the gemstones
out of the pith taste like.
Wine, one said.
We moved away
from discomfort.
Forgot we were being watched.
Fed on the wet sour
fruit until we are dizzy,
until we are stained,
equitably high on love.
Mary Lou Buschi is the author of three full-length poetry collections and three chapbooks, most recently, Paddock, through Lily Poetry Review Books. Her next book, Blue Physics, will be out in January, 2024. Mary Lou’s poems have appeared in many literary journals such as West Trestle, 2River, The Laurel Review, Against the Seawall, Ploughshares(forthcoming). Currently, she is a special education teacher in the Bronx. She lives in Nyack, New York with Max(dog) and Jeff(husband). https://www.maryloubuschi.com
A-minor 