All I Can Give
In the end, I can only ever offer
nothingness
or ash, the one
flavor of realization
you can cup in your hands.
Until then, my saliva of amylase,
the sourdough breath
of morning, of decaying
particles of salmon and dill that fed
the crumbling self-possessed restlessness
of my cells, sparking
more and more errantly
or going dark while the particular flora
of my gut continues to rage,
until the sleeper agent inhabitants
that could destroy me, wake again
and destroy me, or
you, a whole dumb ecosystem
flowering between us.
***
Read more of Allister MacMartin’s poetry.
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