Leslie Monsour

The buds are harvested before their hour, Then must be steamed or boiled before they yield The tongue-like sepals with their toothsome bracts Attached to the receptacle, or heart, That stores the petals of the future flower. Your mother will instruct you how to score Each fleshy leaf between your . . . . Continue Reading »

The salty Peloponnese flood Of minerals and Trojan blood Is in this oily, briny fruit, Savored by Milton to salute The poets of antiquity. It is the flavor of the sea And ink squirtings of cephalopods; Mortality plucked from a god’s Martini at the end of time, When guilt squares up with every . . . . Continue Reading »