It Was Sunny Last Weekend

She’s got that
flush, red, and burning under
a white cotton t-shirt with
tiny tassels on the sleeves.
Little waist hidden
under the folds and swirls,
the dreams and nightmares
of that white cotton shirt.
Maple syrup hair, sweet
dried cranberries sprinkled on
golden crepes, too pretty
to eat. She is
breakfast God made for Gaea.
Powdered sugar on shoulders where
Apollo’s brazenness did minor damage,
sticky lips, morning kisses. If
I were to reach to touch her,
I would recoil as if from flames.
I dream of cooking breakfast
as God does.
Someday, someday.


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