juicy by mike mclane


Ripe Himalayan pomegranate countertops.

They’re all the rage these days.

Docs in crispy lab coats like to slice and dice on them.

If you go belly up, blush a bit, pop a leak,

These counters wipe clean, with a streak free shine.

Scalpel. Vice. Gauze. Gauze. Gauze.

And pause, “That’s not good.”

With a thread-thin cut he sees my deepest secrets:

A stomach full of rubies, an eyeball stuffed with sapphires.

Soon he’ll take a teaspoon and scoop up all my pithy rinds.

Just within my sugary skin are ropes, pulled from paperclips and fish hooks,

Wiry and tough, all twisted up. The oldest trick in the book.

With a bed of frosted tigers eyes the back of my head rolls,

And a stream of drool krazy glues the little spheres to the corner of my mouth.

Until I have become a swollen chrysanthemum, a suckle-bee with pollen

Dripping from my jowls. The good doctor removes my extra senses.

He puts them in a bowl right by my bedside, with a plate underneath

To catch all the drips. Little drops of sour rain fizzle on my tongue tip.

Each one chatters my teeth into tiny bits, shivers my optic nerve,

Plays toccatas on my spine. I wonder where she took me that day.

All I did was hold on tight, right over the edge of the swing seat.

I used to fit so nicely upon that seat. I sprouted little wings,

Wings Boeing would be proud of, and flopped forth onto the floor,

I’d not beat them fast enough. Lift off was just a myth, and here lies

A pile of wet laundry soaked red, and the judge’s card,

Perfect 10.