Stuck together sweet cakes" “You’re golden,” butter Cookies, kisses, and savory dishes like “You’re my person.” I can’t cook anymore, look through the cabinets for anything. Talking tastes sour. Swallowing is barbed wire. Yet, I have crumbs in my bed they left behind. I’ll pack them in a ziplock, tuck them in my pocket. They’re not gone—just misplaced. I’m not lost, just making space for new kitchen cabinets. Mix-matched mugs, spoons bent in, chipped cups topped with paper towels to wipe up spills from our kin.
for rent The house was a passing place. I extended the lease two years too long. No room for growing vines or brown paper bouquets. No room for clothing racks, sequins, or all-black silks. No room for boxes that never get put away. That I wanted a big closet to pretend in. A dishwasher that washes the chapstick off green glasses. A washer to clean the mud from my creased Jordans. A big window. So I can see the world that sits before them. So the gold can watch over me. An invitation to dance. Or to watch the rainfall, carry me.
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The Lexington Line • S/S 22 • vol 8 • no 2
if lust were long walks on the beach We took breaths of sunsets and choked on butterflies to feel alive. Neon gushed through our insides, inflaming ultraviolets. A forest fire. But only the flowers burn. Sweet desire, I’m tired.
By Kally compton
Poems & Illustrations Part II
why cooking is more fun than cleaning
