Poppy Seeds

Teresa Morse


We know they contain worlds,
teeming with life where they stick
to your palms or lodge
in the canyons of your molars.

Roll just one between the sand dunes
of your fingertips. Hold the world electric
and smooth in the swirls of your being.
Spin it to the tip of your tongue.

Fit the ocean into a thimble
and tilt it to wet
the back of your throat.
Wash down the poppy seed,
swallow the world,
black and round and perfect.

 

dying clock on the wall


tick second:minute:hour
:life, eventually

why we chose to divide time
is a mystery solved in three
revolutions, incessant countdown
and / not enough time
/ too much time

we could
smash clocks, return blinks
to the sun, to whitetails in the dew
and crickets’ calls unreliable
as our own bodies where time
lives in degeneration

bound to our pulses
telling us what to do               and when
and when                          and when

time we can’t hold but divide
minutes:seconds:milliseconds

threads running:through our fingers:
like water


Teresa Morse is a Kansas native turned ex-Georgian now living in the Cedar Valley with her husband and pug. When not reading or writing, she can be found hiking, baking bread, or rummaging in antique stores. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cape Rock, The Manhattanville Review, Fearsome Critters, and TOE GOOD, among others.