How The Good Part Ends

An apple falls, a curl falls, a gaze
falls, the sun lands, a dress
bunches and itches, the letter
goes on and then stops.

The tongue organizes the teeth, seats
are assigned, a dress whines
at the hips. Milk drops
to the tongue, the sun moves on.

Letter sours the girl, the inky dark
unfurls itself over her brow. Something
she’s given’s been basted, broiled,
frozen, next: the trash, the flies, the bees.

(As she reads, she tries to think
of Lucifer, God’s favorite angel, the best-
chosen, un-chosen, felled, before everything
went to Hell.) Letter picks back up but then falls.

The taste of milk sours on a girlish
tongue, nervous, chewed, distinctly un-new.
A button pops, the letter goes on
and then stops. An apple rots.

A curl uncurls, a gaze decides,
the sun shifts, a tongue dries, the letter
goes on and then ends. Somewhere a kitten’s fur
catches a mat. Now it is a common cat.

Rebecca Ring is working on her BFA at Emerson College in Writing, Literature, & Publishing. Her poetry has been published by Cadaverine Magazine and the Somerville Journal.  At night, she is a waitress and an occasional snake charmer.