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Whatever fire burns us first, they teach us the word No,
but on our own we learn the sweet word More.
We cuddle with the fatty breast of excess,
shun moderation, its skeletal cousin the scold.
Food comes first and lasts the longest
even when lust crashes through like a lineman.
More cake, more kisses, more chocolate, more you.
In my time, I have wanted more days
to lie in the sand beside the warm Carolina sea.
I’ve ordered one more drink,
when more was the last thing I should have.
Some years I have wanted more women
than any sane man’s life could hold.
And often, when a sun like this one
slips down russet under a dark horizon
I pray More time, the biggest no of all.
More. Say the word. A kiss into the air.
A gesture of farewell. O life. O now.
O every mortal gift. More, we say. More. O More.
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Teacher, poet, and fiction writer, R.G. Evans lives in southern New
Jersey. His work has appeared in journals such as Paterson Literary Review,
Weird Tales, and The Best of Pif Magazine Offline.
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