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Eating the Past | A Poem by Ralph Monday

Eyeing the scarlet fruit
I overheard the market’s owner say —
That winesap is last year’s crop.
They keep ’em in nitrogen chambers.
Won’t get any more until October. —

Later, hauling wood down the mountain
I bit into that tart Taira,
eating the past.
I held in my hand red token tickings;
time was bouncing wheels,

unseasoned wood.
The engine at heartspring’s center
throbbing, moaning, lurking like
Einstein before the bedroom window
of his lover,

flowing as a river in Ecclesiastes
this time, that time, every time,
all time —
when locked within her
he unlocked gravity warped photons.

Five miles to devour what went before.
In eating the past,
I consumed myself.


Ralph Monday has had over 200 poems published in literary journals and online literary sites. A chapbook, All American Girls and Other Poems was recently published, and a book Lost Houses and American Renditions is forthcoming from Hen House Press.



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