bruise feast

the first time i fell as a plum
you told me you would plant
the pit in the deepest part
of your closet. i searched for it
every time you turned me into a chickadee.
a handful of hair. little horse self
pulling a carriage of your shoes.
the bruises always tasted like caramel.
sweet in the autumn ankles.
i was an expert at convincing myself
that love was a tunnel of knives.
goodbye midnight. goodbye grease.
a roasted fish. your father's swimming eyes.
today i know there is a plum tree somewhere
in your guts. it is all mine. when you try
to eat the fruit it makes you sick.
leaves you with the same bruises 
you left me only they are rancid & look
like new continents. so, you have
to watch the plum tree. pretend it is not
growing from your eye socket. lie to
every new lover, saying,
"this is just a history." my darling, if i 
remember anything about us it is that
you always finish your plate. i am here
in a castle of sugar. i am here eating
my own plums. every new pit
a rosary bead. i pray to the oldest gods
that you think of me & your stomach
turns into salamanders. you lay awake
coughing up pits. one after another.
the closet, verdant & holy. that you still
find my feathers on your clothes.
revenge is a spell no one is ever really 
too good for. do not tell me you don't dream
of seeing the blossoms bursting
from the mouth of the person who buried you.
you can say whatever you want. 
everyone can see exactly what grew.