No need to frighten me
with your hard ripe heart
and your stem that mimics
the twisted world.
Someone could throw you over
the fence like an enemy.
You could be sliced in half
or fried in butter.
You could be carried into the forest
inside the mouth of a fox
next to whose beating heart
you too would thump and clamor.
***
Geraldine Connolly is the author of three poetry collections: Food for the Winter, Province of Fire, and Hand of the Wind. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Shenandoah, The Gettysburg Review and The Cortland Review. She has been awarded two NEA fellowships, a Maryland Arts Council Fellowship and the Yeats Society of New York Poetry Prize. She has taught at the Writers Center in Bethesda, the Chautauqua Institute and the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Sliver of Stone Magazine 