Apricot
A summer Taos sunset in your hand.
The weight of a small child’s fist,
a girl, resisting sleep as she sleeps.
The shape of a chicken angel’s egg.
Eros’s lovely clefted backside
in velvet. Fleshy
as a horse’s lazy, lower lip.
A faraway fragrance:
juniper in gin, that slow gin
kiss.
What God saw on the eighth day, and ate, and said of it—
way good. The woody stone we worry-gnaw when death’s near,
when we’re toothless again as babies,
trying to keep a great thought small.
Deborah Slicer
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