By VIVIAN KOPKA
Margarine
Guilt fills like hot margarine in my throat and I pity you
I question your needle fingers and your sandpaper tongue
for it might have just been my skin too sensitive
my body pressed against yours, the windows of your parents’ minivan fog
I remember my first shower
sitting, waiting for the droplets to heal, as if water could erase memories
years later I still bleed
I cry when you touch me
I cry when you breathe
I see you on the sofa across from me, crying,
And finally the sanguine memories run clear.
Butter
Your voice melts like butter in my ears
I breathe in your words
the sweet bile fills my lungs
The delicious fig trees and sweetgrass
In your brain’s garden
Leave me euphoric and sleepy,
I don’t touch you
Yet I feel you,
I imagine your taffy skin
Blending with the salt of our sweat
Featured Image: Britannica
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