Don't Leave Hungry: Fifty Years of Southern Poetry Review

Seeds

J U L I E S U K Seeds I halve an apple on the radius and discover a star-shaped center. At the flowering end of the apple you see the same star only pulled in the way a turtle snaps back frightened into puckered skin the way we clutch what we own don’t touch! don’t touch! as if this was likely preserved as we are and swathed to death. But this inner star is open full of seeds jumbled like miniature boats robbed and left in an ancient tomb long since forgotten. Everywhere hunger. Ferryboat seeds going out coming back oarless the life inside waiting to be rescued. 60 ❚ The 1970s ...