sunday mornings
he tasted gold and honey-sharp, like
cap'n crunch and last night's hangover.
sugar rush sex
the slow spread of our bodies like syrup
over the centerfold of the Times,
erasing headlines with restless muscles
(global warming versus human combustion).

cornflakes on wednesdays made him taste
serious, like cardboard and grown-up
problems and fog over the thames.

he hated frankenberry (it was pink)
but ate it to make me laugh
when we watched old horror movies
on friday nights. his teeth were
typewriters. they hammered
and cracked the skin of my neck
and lips with an aftertaste
of strawberry smoke and cinema.

alpha-bits meant distance,
when communication needed words
instead of blushing contact. messages
left on the kitchen counter
held heavy faded flavor
and said ordinary things like
do you miss me and
out of milk darling and
mary me
(because r's were hard to find and he was late)
with a cheap plastic ring box prize,
glitter-blue and too small to wear.

and when I'm standing under
the sodium-yellow lights
of the grocery store, I try to
back to when life tasted like
something other than regret
and his aftershave and him
and when errands didn't end
with me standing in a puddle
of milk and bottled tears
as the intercom screams
cleanup in aisle seven.

silly girl, love is(n't) for fools.