This poem needs some serious work —
Of Trenches and Stones
Believing him is the easy part
when love begins to taste
like blood
and water.
Metaphor-
ically: she wastes away on a cloud
of opium and
small metallic wings.
You can taste
the flour
in the bread –
smell the pecans
where there are only
fish
(the eyes
wasting
in the garbage)
and you wonder what it would be like
to have been
a woman
like her
with marks on her skin
that are natural,
that smell of
chlorine
in her hair.
You
are wasting away
on a cloud
of elixir
and diamonds
and yet you love him anyway –
far off in a barn
that floats on the ocean
of a desert plain.