Bruise

Night lingers, blackberry staining
lips tart long after their kiss,
blooming into mature bruises.

Your haunch is a dimpled fruit,
my elbow, a peach pit.

On overripe pears, hornets
stumble drunkenly gorging, trembling
cellulose wings, legs, antennae, and stinger.

Bitter rind, the orange
horizon bites through

my sweet rot.
Swollen, my arm, asleep
under yours, embraces its ache.

—in Rust + Moth, spring 2020 issue

ESSAYS ON ART

From artist interviews to exhibition reviews, Olivia has covered contemporary art in New England since 2015.