Sits like a raw plum in my chest
that you could cut in half with a
kitchen-knife and twist apart to open.
Examine its grainy gloss in the low
winter light, watch how the halves
bleed slightly when you press—be
gentle. How purple, how perfect,
gentle. How purple, how perfect,
you remark, and you touch it with your
ringed index finger, trace the veins,
stroke the gradient, wine to ivory,
stumble at the stone, remove that
with your teeth to tongue the chamber
left behind.