THERE'S NO OTHER WORD FOR PURPLE
The root is warped but
you ask me if it’s polish.
I put the seeds in, see? I’m
cultivating, collecting the dirt purple
beneath the white corona
of the nail bed. A bed
of nails, primeval ease,
a bed to lay my hunger in.
This left-hand callous
is from weeding out
independence under the white oak,
this one from a slug of juniper gin
and a bang of conversation.
You slam the plate,
knowing I’ll eat the echo, its fat
grapes rolling over the table and into my hand.