BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS LORETA STOICA

Strawberry Seed

I’m not broken for I was never whole. That strawberry-seed-sized part forged into flesh on Orion’s belt and my memory of your honeysuckle smile encircles me in its fanged nausea, and that sweet caramel you dropped on my cracked-marble lips, my naked velvet shadow, my milk-moss skin, my carved flesh opens for you. My God! I feel numb.

I’m told to cry, to shout, to fear. Star-dust reels into beauty until I’m breakable, borderline romantic. That fucking part sinks, distorts, morphs –patient in the antechamber. I wish to feel, but to feel is to weld that strawberry-seed-sized part to my man-made breast.