"What's the world for you if you can't make it up the way you want."

-Jazz, Toni Morrison

Pennies in the Piggy Bank and The Curiosities of Fruit

Pennies in the Piggy Bank and The Curiosities of Fruit

Pennies in the Piggy Bank

Tasting the shadow of a girl I once knew. 
Bronze. Iron. Like a mouthful of dirty pennies. 

Only now, in the bottomless quiet of a sleepless
plague do I see her in technicolor. 

Raging through massive puddles.
Barefoot and bound to catch a cold, 

but careless. Blissful. 
Free from the age where

death becomes a soft purple stain
under restless eyes. 

Free from the indomitable shadow
of self hatred. 

She parades
through the rain, not stopping once 

to wonder if her hair is following the
flattering part that hides her too-large forehead, 

or if the sopping strands of hair are dangling in front
of her dripping lashes in a way that makes her look (more) fuckable, 

or if that fuckability defines her worth, 
or makes her body a trophy worth shelving, 

or if that makes her a piggy bank full of dimes
or just a pig with a hole cut into her belly

Built to be emptied,
Corked, spent and broken.

No. She’s not thinking about any of this. 
Out in the orange heart of an October storm

She’s wet without worry.
Smiling without destiny.

The haunting taste of pennies-
The only trace left of her.

She; folding like a wave
Between cheek and tongue.

Wondering if she’ll come back.
Wondering if she can still teach me.

The Curiosities of Fruit

Imagine your skin as the bright rind of plump fruit 

Would you not be tempted to peel back
The blushing flesh stretched over your cheek bones 

See what hue grows underneath

Smell the citrus mist burst like a voluptuous, wet cloud
From the bedrock of your body

Let vanity be kin to you
Like rain to root

It can be healthy,
Critical as we are

So say Yes, Yes, Yes to Imagining --

Every suffering, succulent thing
deserves this curiosity -- 

A slice of avocado,
The pearly wet belly of an abalone shell,
Jagged innards of amethyst geodes, 

The self, a divine mouthful

Were you fruit for my feasting
I would break you apart
Like a pomegranate,
Collect all your dazzling arils,
Eat them in boisterous spoonfuls

Like a sloppy, soft skulled child,
Let you stain my mouth,
Drip down my fingers,
Get wedged between my teeth

I would peel back my velvet rind and make a ripe bed for you
In the space torn
Where you can spill like a ruby jewel landslide
Over the clementine slide of my suede spine,
Where birds spring from fermented canopies,
Where your laugh is a field of poppies bursting like wildfire,

Where the heart is a piece of fruit with no rind
No doubt
No fear

Monet Sutch is a 25 year old college student living in Portland Oregon. Writing and literature have been sources of sanctuary and safety for Monet since she was a child. Her work focuses on family, identity, recollection of trauma through different lenses, and using curiosity as a necessary tool to approach all things existential, ethereal, and human. Instagram: @slickfillet

Cover photo by Keilidh Ewan on Unsplash

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