ripeness was all

Her father died unwillingly

when she was young

and she learned the lesson:

ripeness was all.

There lay no truth up or

down beyond flesh.

When left in a trash bin,

we go the way of fruit

and its flies.

So cured of the cult of the soul,

she set out to find the 

fringe of filth and joy:

what a body becomes 

when shaken, slit

or set aside.

She found men who treated 

her as shades of

for-granted:

a dull substance,

or a bauble,

or a dunce;

more than anything,

as practice

for gorgeous narcissitudes, 

insecurities,

and hates.

One told her:

We are born to ripen and fuck,

nothing more.

So she sought flogging

and ropeburn

and the popping of nerves.

Bruises bloomed, became legible.

She read by candlelight

and prayed low.

On dawning asphalt

in fuck-you basements

far from old gospels, 

way down strange throats 

where spit slurred

and curses grew,

she learned the lesson:

Decency lies

on the far side

of disgust.

The body coheres

under force,

like clamshit.

Sense is shown

to the senseless,

the chattering,

the low-slung, 

the huge.

I asked her:

She said,

The transference of energy.

We attended a funeral

where the guests were

invited to shovel dirt

into the hole,

but she didn’t.

I asked her:

She said,

Not yet.