by Meggie Royer
In one town, an apricot held in the mouth
of a rabbit like a swollen tongue.
In another, a pear clasped between the fins
of a fish. The pit of a cherry nestled
in the eye socket of a crow.
Once, my grandfather’s aneurysm
bloomed in his body like a tulip.
There are certain things that shouldn’t be,
and yet they are.
Out of place, the way the jawbone migrated
into the ear region over time.
we used to be able to taste pain
long before we could hear it.
Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently working in the domestic violence field in Minnesota. Her poems have previously appeared in The Harpoon Review , Melancholy Hyperbole , The Minnesota Review, and more. She runs a literary journal, Persephone’s Daughters, dedicated to empowering survivors of domestic and sexual violence and child abuse.
Image credit: Wikipedia