Author Information
kitchen talk
Folder:
Poems 2009 It wasn’t until I felt the bruises on my ego
that I realized how hard I fell
through reason and bed sheets
until a hand on my stomach felt heavy
with possibilities I didn’t want to acknowledge just yet.
Yellow usually meant the dawn of egg yokes too
early to be sane on a
Saturday morning while
theories ran rampant across kitchen counters;
easily despite the dirty dishes.
Remember when the ceiling tiles still leaked hopes like
dew drops in the spring
and your hands reached for mine:
yearning to press through skin
so our atoms could rub elbows?
Laced ideals added a touch of honey to my tea as
eyelids fell and bread rose.
I don’t sleep much anymore
but life’s a dream so whose to notice the subconscious thoughts
that slip past my lips and into your eardrum?
