Green is the taste of bitter rind that lingers on your fingertips,
cutting through the sweetness of icebox orange smiles
bursting on my tongue, lovingly fed,
conjuring the salty sting of solitude’s imminence,
as if a shade.
How dreaded the tic-toc of the clock—
rhythmic shower of dying heartbeats—
hanging, sourly, above us in white clusters,
promising much, offering little
but that which is within our fleshy grasps.
Before dawn breaks and you slip away—a shadow
fleeing the Eye of Day—
you reach backward, hand upon wanting hip, pulling me inward,
stopping time if but for a second longer.
O morning thief!
I am bound by your fragrant tethers
that permeate, infiltrate ‘the everything’ under my skin
through the hole in my chest that once held a beating heart,
long-since cast at the pink of your delicate arches.
My soul trembles as you turn and smile,
then walk away,
leaving behind your indentions and a tattered Lorca,
tossed afloat in the rising, orange currents of morning.
Still, I am drawn to the darkness of my corners,
where Death has found a home.
The purity of her black light defines, reveals all
within this drowned world of light and shadow.
There is no love without fear of absence,
no hope without doubt,
no fulfillment without the memory of Hunger’s dull stabs.
We savor and rejoice these fleeting moments—
all that is good under God’s blue heaven—
for in the end
all we are left with…all that is true…
is that cold taste of green.
David Estringel is an avid reader and poet. Writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, & essays. His work has been accepted and/or published by Specter Magazine, Literary Juice, Foliate Oak Magazine, Indiana Review, Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, 50 Haikus, littledeathlit, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Route 7, and The Good Men Project. He is currently a Contributing Editor (fiction) at Red Fez and editor/weekly columnist at The Good Men Project. David Estringel can be found on Twitter (@The_Booky_Man).
Originally published at Cajun Mutt Press.