Dry Spell

CARI MOLL

What does one who grants you the kindness of a living body
want from you in return but an understanding of what it means to feel alive?

—“Window” by Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr.

Think of a peach. Think of it
suckling sunlight until it dries out.

Grind your teeth on the craters.
I, too, turn to leather

without the wet spit
of a kiss. Think of candied

peach bits. Drown
sorrow in a sugar barrel.

Sweeten solitude.
Honey coat eagerness

in artificial love. Sucralose.
Silicone. Stomach aches

from the excess. I miss
the scarcity of organic.

Loneliness has a bitter
aftertaste. In it, I forget

how my own tongue tastes
like twisted apricot.

I am not comparing
dryness to death.

I am telling you
that I miss the plumpness

of fruit in fullness.
I miss the sweet tint of it

in my gin and tonic.
Let me twist

the orange skin
and set it on a glass rim.

I fantasize about
chipping my tooth

on a cherry pit and begging
another tongue to make

up for it, clashing
enamel in the throws

of a messy kiss: soft pulp,
honey gums, candy spit.

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CARI MOLL is a poet, teacher, and dancer in the Seacoast of New Hampshire. They released their sophomore chapbook, Only the Pretty Lesbians Go to Heaven, in July of 2024. Their work has been featured in publications such as Bullshit Lit and new words {press}. They currently serve as editor-in-chief for Barnstorm Journal.