I feel the snap in me
when you break off a piece
and while it’s still
dissolving on your tongue

you fold back the torn
paper and silver foil
the way you could try
to fold me back to myself.

Let me slowly feed you
these fragments
my fingertips to your lips
as if to retrieve

what slipped like a shadow
between them
now a dark rivulet
sharp at the back

of your throat.
I wish I could follow it
through the hot coil
of your innards, where

it’s driven on by the thud
of your hidden heart
like the sea surging
round a cave’s wet walls.

Oh, close your eyes.
Let me tell you something
the only way I know how:
mouthful by
trembling mouthful.

Listen to this poem:


Dark Chocolate by Roisin Kelly


Photo Ocean Cave by Nico Gilbert-Igelsrud used under Creative Commons License (BY-NC-ND-2.0)