by Teresa Morse
We know they contain worlds,
teeming with life where they stick
to your palms or lodge
in the canyons of your molars.
Roll just one between the sand dunes
of your fingertips. Hold the world electric
and smooth in the swirls of your being.
Spin it to the tip of your tongue.
Fit the ocean into a thimble
and tilt it to wet
the back of your throat.
Wash down the poppy seed,
swallow the world,
black and round and perfect.
Previously published in
The Manhattanville Review, Fall 2018