top of page
  • Todd Wooten

Song for the Spoiled

there's an apple tree behind my house

flesh growing along the limbs

bees circling, rushing to find the best seat

blushing beauties, swaying at the attention

hanging with the hope

of becoming a pie, or juice, or a table display

perhaps a cobbler, or caramel'd, keeping doctors away


the barked trunk stretches down to the roots

exposed on occasion in the shaded light

caressing a green child, harvested out of season

skin bruised, rot spreading

exiled and oxidized

for ants, and worms, and flies

perhaps birds, or mold, a fetid meal for the ground


3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

A Greek Tragedy

Sentries stand guard over the dungeon of Danae where I hide from betrayal and Zeus. I once had a child - not Perseus - born to a Gorgon with Stonehenge eyes An Odyssey prepared to a foreign land, wher

Abandoned

Your abandonment was a whisper. Like the autumn breeze whistling through the dilapidated shack that creaks among the trees. I hear the retreating army of your footsteps. I catch glances in the periphe

A Bout of Ideation

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. - from “Wanting to Die” by Anne Sexton thoughts before my second psych ward visit: People

Comments

Rated 0 out of 5 stars.
No ratings yet

Add a rating
bottom of page