artwork: ralph murre
by Jean Feraca
It doesn’t matter that the house isn’t locked.
Without you, it’s empty as an oven
of its loaves
I want neither your ham nor your cheese
nor your oysters and white
I want the yeast of you, making me rise
til I split, two halves
in your teeth
and the butter melting, the hot bran
your yam-yellow light spilling
your honey seeping all through the comb
Not this house with its darkening oak.
Not that table laid with its cold
~ previously published in