Poetry

Seven days

Monday — Moon

What can one say of the moon?
O I dunno...

Tuesday — Cheese

These airy, artful membranes,
Drowned, hung, quartered
Hard-curdle lactic lung
Dairy: in its every fold
There’s fluid involved.

Wednesday — Bread

Both this and most bread is a lung of yeast
Frozen in heat at its height of inspiration:
That flat bread there has expired.

Thursday — Thirst

Like a hole,
Fill it up and it’s gone—
But not for long.

Friday — Fruit

If all fruit is sex, then an orange is the sun
And on a tree, or in a net,
There are many, many suns.

The top-down view of an apple is an anus
With a longing stem poking out at you:
O just shut up and eat!

Saturday — Olive Oil

I love olive.
I love olive’s oil.
The best olive oil comes from the love olives
And is mostly sold in drums
Not themselves unlike lungs
Which, when breathing out their all,
Make their thin tin sing.

Sunday — Sun

What can one say of the sun?
O   There’s one.

Dominic Zugai