By Patricia Spears Jones
What happens when you lose your taste
For living things-a lover’s mouth
The scent of her skin; his dark pubic hair
His hand’s distinct wave
How to savor what can no longer
Offer warmth, languor, curses
This we speak of
Again and again
A theme so lacking in originality
And yet
Is not that taste
It’s heat, spice or sourness
That shapes such loss.
Is it not
Of paramount deliberation
Is it not that need to stroke a living thing
That returns us to the pain of what
Has moved from breath?
