Have you ever thought about how chocolate feels? No, you only think about yourself.
Prompt 20: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about.”
A bar in waiting “Have a fruit of my labour. Have a cherry.” “Have a part of my body. Break a leg.” “Have all of me. I’m your iceberg. Crush me.” Only she is silent. Advertising nothing, she lies in wait in her wrapper, thinking of the first kiss, the first lick, which will be the last of her. She thinks of the incoming mouth. It’s the family lore. She can feel it near. Impatient hands tearing her up, as if it weren’t her first time. She is starting to melt now. Won’t be long. She won’t go without a fight. She will leave some of her everywhere as forensics recommend. She can see the light of day and hear a gasp and a wail. “Oh no, mom, it’s whiiiite! The one I hate! WHY?”
The last day in my NaPoWriMo history
2018: Disobey this!
I am a lazy rebellious disobedient poet intent on speaking of what is left out. Of anything that has no gender persuasion ambition babies. Of the divisions they force us into. Of the fears they instil. Of all that prevents us from surviving the richest. Except of course if what I disobey is everything but my laziness.
How did I tell them? How does one tell anybody anything? “Parents, I’m going to Italy for two weeks, alone. In the meantime you can feed my boyfriend.” I didn’t say this last.
2020: The garden
Have I ever come home to a neat garden in rows where only that morn I had wilderness grow? To a neat garden in rows two men lent their hands, I had wilderness grow but they made it let go. Two men lent their hands to the gift of their hearts but they made it let go for my birthday with love. To the gift of their hearts I will always stay true, for my birthday with love they made me grow food. I will always stay true where only that morn they made me grow food. Have I ever come home?
This day in my blogging history