The Bride Frightened at Seeing Life Opened
Her whole life she’d called for the great cracking,
imagined it as the laser tap of a Philips head on the hairy chest
of a coconut, the sort of drilling that starts slow
but winds up sloppy, barely accounting for its mistaps
until a divet becomes an invitation, barely containing
the spill of its off-white near-sweet lava. Instead, it seemed
a tremendous failure in design, so much fruit in reluctant dialogue
like the market bounty she’d pour across the kitchen table
each morning. It was exhausting, the fruit, with its relentless soft walls,
seeds whining to be plucked, sticky faces of plantains
glaring petulantly at the coy perfection of kiwi fuzz.
Perhaps she’d misunderstood all along, imagining her life
a slow dramatic reveal, a careful carving out of her savory youth.
Surely she was not meant for blind consumption,
her joy raised to a tongue merely wanting breakfast.
Juliet Latham lives in West Chester, PA, where she is a full-time corporate trainer. She holds a masters degree in creative writing and taught writing for 10 years at Temple University in Philadelphia. Her work has been published in a variety of places, including The Journal, Eleven Eleven, Boxcar Poetry Review, Pindeldyboz, The Edward Society, BLOOM, and Monkeybicycle.
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