Once I twisted a sticky loquat
from its branch, a yellow weight to
my mouth. Its fruit
away. A lost ant burned
my tongue & faded. It made
no difference at all standing there in the
shallow crab grass,
feeling royal, elegant as cross-
x’s into a fine
hatched cloth until the world rammed
into me, a sudden
I was struck there in the simple
weeds & backyard tree fruits,
a glass doll blinking my painted eyes,
coughing elderflowers,
upending my dowry, a showering of
tiny shells, the drowsy way
my life awoke to itself. How my shame
came to nothing but the sugar
I keep after,
this outright nectar,
hacked & bled,
the flowerheads I rub
wherever I can.
Recuse me from nothing. For whatever I want
beneath this sunshine stun-gun.
I reach w/ both hands for wherever
the body will fit.

Emily Vizzo is a writer, editor and educator whose work has appeared in FIELD, Blackbird, jubilat, North American Review, The Los Angeles Times, Next American City, and other publications. Her essay, "A Personal History of Dirt," was honored as a notable essay in Best American Essays 2013, and she was selected for inclusion within Best New Poets 2015. Her chapbook, GIANTESS, is forthcoming in 2018 from YesYes Books. www.emilyvizzo.com