stirring - Kay Thayer

you stand in the middle of the kitchen:

all strawberry-stained hands and

blueberry-bruised eyes. you have only

ever wanted to be loved like sharing

peeled oranges and picking up lemons.

sugar-stirred berries sit heavy in your stomach,

sickly, sweet, and solid. you think of

his laugh, sugar-sifted and raw; the way he’d

cock his head back - caught mid-burst, eyes

squinting against the kitchen’s fluorescents,

hand coiled around the pot’s handle on the

stove. to think of him sends you into a

frenzy: you are flour-pale, egg-white,

and all you can recall is the tart taste left

on your tongue. the yearning rises like yeast.