from And Then Like a Saber

Upon the placemats set before us,
yesterday’s desserts spoil,
the fruit our teeth grit
taste of a heart
when they taste of anything at all.

The subsiding rain left us
bejeweled sabers vainly hungering,
forged so precisely for purpose and hoping
ours are the hands to murder by.

We bleed the summer cows,
blanch hides and fleshes
from the misunderstood light,
and roll, exhausted from the effort,
away from our ripe, passionate disasters.