Bite

These swirling shapes would well become 

a VHS tape authorized 

by David Miscavige, yet

I peel it back still. 

Bird feet mar the Rorschach pattern

words wrapped in a shadow

blanket, a storm-hued cataract

softening the blow of my gaze. 

You only slap the mosquito 

after the prick. 

How can a pockmarked page 

scarred like old newspaper 

carry stories shaded in colors

matching my own?

How can a poem about a tooth solitaire

on a jolly rancher page 

bleeding phantom green, orange glowing logo  

cause such an ache?

How can this wreckage of wildflowering wildfires

wreak havoc on the beauty of what I read

yet I still must know 

where the wild things are?

How can the outside of fruit be so bruised

misshapen, mottled and crude

yet the flesh still sting 

sweetly on the tongue?

This vexation vicious, a thousand 

puzzle pieces that never connect, 

is not enough to turn me away. 

Beckoning words buzz,  

a melodious warning 

but I lean in. 

The welt left behind will be plump, perhaps

but as with all writing,

I let it bite.