as a pig
on a spit
turn
turn
men poking me
with sarcastic jabs
salted with
my quips
balking at reality tags
the red apple
pushed between
my puckered lips
is mush in the flames
of a kiss
I’m browning once again
as the ground
after the rain
the patches are stains
the sun falls
as if the pins let go
I see poked holes
at the site  
that enters light