By: Savannah G. Bloom
I go out and collect fistfuls of Bluebird Hibiscus
while you prepare the vase. I feed you pretty
futures over the stovetop, wispy promises of
a seaside home, your hair plaited neat as dough.
I would give you thousands of starlings over
Rome but all I have is spilt cinnamon and chia
seeds, these snapped stems, the warming oven.
Our hands are still sticky with almond butter
but smell of nutmeg. Flour lines your dimple
when you grin, mulberry-mouthed. Don’t mind
the ant on the counter, he’s searching for the
sugar spun by your voice. I won’t ask you to
dance, but would you sing us something sweet?
Under the glow of drowsy sunbeams, our
breathing slows, drooping like honey, and we
rest, and rest, and rest.
Savannah Bloom is a sophomore English major from Louisville.