Pulp

June, an overripe plum
squished inside a hand

Juice licks my pinkie
while the sun reheats
my skin. Dirt & sweat
mercury my forehead.

A blue rocking horse
watches with one eye.

Plum in palm, I charge
forward. The wet bomb
bursts against his head.

I leave the shrapnel.

I’ve licked my pulp
& skin peels before;
they never taste blue.
...
Published in giallo