It lands with a sickly
crack
in the pan,
not the thud it should make
if it were flesh-soft
and not
crystalline
and waiting
for a kiss of heat
from the burner.
Now, there’s a metaphor.
Something like
“sola dosis facit venenum.”
A little Latin cooed,
tattooed
in a groove on my shoulder
like the remembered press
of your lips,
your thumbprints to my wrist,
and a constant stir-
ring
turning
the sting
to honey again.
A little something for Shay’s Word Garden and
