The unwavering scent of quince brings on the juggernaut:
Legs, like woolly tree trunks, marching
A locomotive beating down a beaten path
Over cratered purple landscapes
As trampling gives to stomping
Our careless queen is stuck.
Black sap oozes between her toes, swallowing her feet
But on she presses, intent with newfound sweetness
Losing sight of her knees, she heaps forward
Salivating eyes never deserting the glossy fruit
As knuckles crack, a muscle rips, ligaments are pulled
Her mighty brown shoulders sink into liquid night
Desperately, her trunk reaches out, searching, stretching, gasping…
And finally finds her luscious prize:
Too bad her mouth is already full of tar.
Josh Kaston can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org