White Center, 1950
The figs, arranged in still life,
as if by Chardin’s quiet violence;
the house exists to hold them.
Bruised bodies beaded dark wet,
glisten pressed to porcelain in this
astonished kitchen whiteness, this
bewildered daybreak rose.
We know just by looking how
the mouth will form around them,
the subtle shape of promise
and of fleeting tongue-burst flesh.