Green Hills Literary Lantern






This is old in me, this measuring

of things pleasurable.

You don’t know me yet

to be flattered by this:

the time between our meetings

that seems to you

a paralysis of merging.

Top down in the two-seater,


you’ve no brake to release.


I was seven when my Aunt stunned

each of us kids with a box

of chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Heart shaped in its sling of ribbon

and love-me-love-me-all-over red,

I held it close, hid it

and altered its hiding place

to outwit the sibling predators.

From it I nibbled over a span

of several months.  It became

the family joke which was



and even then I had some.


A girl in possession

of her sweets learns

about letting go and holding on,

about losing herself

to the point of sickness.  Only then

can she open the box more slowly,

taking in just the scent, the sight of those

voluptuous mounds curving

out of their tight, ribbed wrappers.

Before biting in, she guesses what’s inside,

and is good at it.  Even those

she doesn’t prefer are worth

tasting once (or twice)


for the experience.


I love how the lake of your left eye

can spill blue over its rim.

I’m in no hurry to drain you,

to finish this, to come to the bottom

because there is one, to the gray

cardboard of emptiness


where there once was sweet.



M. Nasorri Pavone's poems have appeared in New Letters, Harpur Palate, DMQ Review, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere. She also writes plays, script analyses and is a graduate of the University of California at Los Angeles. She lives in Venice, California.