Mary Ruefle
A Piece of Penuche
I was eating fudge and couldn’t
decide if I liked it or not,
so I kept eating it.
What if life were unbearably
sweet, like homesickness
or a landscape prior to words?
What if we were able to walk
on top of our emotions
as if they weren’t water?
Would we become debauched
reading poetry in front of the fire,
or would we grow lean with despair
as if caught in a thicket, pinned
by thorns, thrashing around
until we were thoroughly
ripped up?
Who would choose to close
the world’s box when something
was bubbling up,
the golden sludge of a dream
just as unattainable now
as it was afterwards.
Life is sweet, said the cherries.
So it is, said the birds.