Fighting

Abundance. The fruited tree
with her orange cheeks ballooned,
puffed gills, in treacly
wind, or, if you like,
the spill of the tanked gold sun.
Do you still love me? Now what
kind of a question is that.
And yet it can't be taken back.
The bachelor-lady's house wants
filling, the drip line laid below
our promising new life.

Copyright © 2007 Dana Goodyear All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission