“Babe,” she tells me, eating green grapes
only semi-seductively, as long
as we've been at this together.
"I wear this imagination
of yours like a glove."
I imagine her pulling oceans over
the knobs of her smooth knuckles,
eyebrows sardonic, breaking
continents to make snug
the wedges between her fingers.
The vine isn’t offered, her fruit's hers.
I'm only here to see her pulverize
with her mouth open, flashing like
the original firearm the very tongue
that whispered behind
the thunder, the perfect mind.
What sense is there behind the senses?
Her enjoyment is tropical fruit, condensation
of æolian pith through diaphanous ocular membrane
secret projectionist's booth, where homunculi,
little teenager or little old man, sleep behind the beam
to dream new footage for pre-recorded
“Don't I know it." Attentive, listening for squishes.
I write the poem, she changes the reel.
Her grapes are fucking delicious,
I can tell.
About the author:
D.S. West is a writer, artist, and determined pedestrian from Boulder, CO. West's poetry has appeared in Crab Fat Magazine and Digital Papercut. His short fiction has appeared in Crack the Spine, Beyond Imagination, and I Don't Belong Here!, an e-book of mediocre short stories he published to Amazon.com to pass the time.