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Sticky, orange and boiled

beneath a hole in the Sweet Walla’s shack—

shack-attack of asthma glacé,

and the road outside wheezes home

to the knell of cattle bells.


This unstitched edge is where I left you

and everything about your name

now shy as a distant cousin

with similar eyes

but not the mouth, nose or gaze.


How was I to know

about this undoing,

like a teaspoon of honey

that takes months to make

but just seconds to steal

and so will no longer heal


this infected breath

            rough-cut sigh

                        broken tongue


With hands churned raw

from milking lost maps,

I lift my face to your shining

and kiss it goodnight.

*First published in Baby Teeth Arts Journal, March 2022

+ featured writer of the month.

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