And what might it taste like? Think
clotted oxygen. Permanent snow. So
many spongy stones, each
containing at its center
the last earthly word of a ghost.
Think of the flesh on an angel’s hips, pinched
into morsels. Candied soap. Small
lozenges of condensed foam.
Six seconds of bliss, rolled
in powdered sugar, deepfried,
rolled again in the white
blood cells of a child,
then left in the shade to multiply.
lumps of fresh
some type of old-fashioned candy
your grandmother always remembered
from childhood, and then
searched for all her life,
never found again, but never
ceased to desire: You
find one of those in your pocket
a few days after she dies.
Copyright © 2007 Laura Kasischke
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.