a poem by M.P. Powers (1 of 2)

A Review

Just after I start in on the latest poetry book
of yet another maltpissing
academic gut-rot with stretchmarks
around
his mouth, my woman comes in and gives me
a peach. I place it on my chest (I am lying
in bed), and when I bite
into it, the juices drip down the palm of my
hand and onto the pages
of his book.

I take a napkin
and wipe everything off, but some of the pages
become rippled with moisture, little drops
of moisture there
and here.

I take another bite, read a few more poems.
There is something about the peach
though.
"This tastes like I'm not even eating
anything," I tell her.
"It's the worst."

Still, I sink my teeth
in again, forge through some more poems.
There is something about the poems
though. They are no diferent than the peach,
which, after a while,

I wrap up in the napkin
and set aside--this fat,
halfeaten hunk of fruitflesh, the ugly pit
staring out.

© by M.P. Powers
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #11 ~ September 2010    next poem