Penitentials

If I say too much: Stain my throat 
with hunger for everything
I cannot swallow. Let me gnaw
my tongue into bloom—my mouth
a garden of busted cherries, salt-soaked 
skin split to the stones

If my teeth fall in sick-love
with the sweetness of biting first: Crack 
both hands into bladed bone—knuckles 
stripped, serrated. Settle me
in gutted corners, nursing 
fistfuls of needles, pale points 
unstitching everything

If I bring up atonement: Bring up 
my kitchen. How I brought out 
the good bowls. Everything
I couldn’t afford fragrant
and piled before you like plums 
and you saying, “I don’t eat
at places like this” 
and me saying, “No,
I didn’t expect you to”
and how I leaned in—eating 
until my wrists were stained 
the most expensive shade 
either of us will ever see.
Bring up that shade when you tell me 
God won’t abide apologies for mistakes 
made with both hands.

Read more from Issue 17.1.