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.