taste buds & artichoke hearts

i love most the things
you can't describe the taste of.
a short list; quinces, red velvet,
& artichoke hearts;
i try to imagine how the artichokes 
might grow & i think that
they might be fire-birds tucked
into themselves, dormant,
waiting to be awakened 
by olive oil & a quartering knife.

the hearts feathered apart in my pasta 
last night. i was 7 again & re-learning
how to enjoy food, wiping oil 
on my thighs. there you were,
older, too old for me, holding
out a fork & begging me to 
put the whole artichoke in my mouth.
you ought to choke me.

& you came inside my mouth too,
fork pointed forward,
finding a plot of loose soil,
the buds blooming all over my tongue;
a romp of wildflowers.

you picked them, making a bouquet,
& i wanted to ask you to be gentle
with my body but my mouth was full
of you feet.

you didn't taste like anything
i can name, only artichoke hearts
& olive oil. 

your plate had a dead deer on
it & i reached out to scratch
behind its ear while you were 
busy taking all the flowers
you could.

the deer opened its mouth
& all of a sudden there we were 
on the side of the freeway,
the creature splayed & limb
as if it wasn't ever real.

when you finally crawled out 
& stepped over my teeth
we were very very lost.

we found a light bulb 
to walk to but it just ended up
being an unprepared artichoke,
still hard & heavy & green
& tasting like the moment
before fire. quartering 
the plant, we shared 
& you took out your fork
again & i took out mine
& we thread the prongs together.