While I Watch My Cat Lick the Icing From Our Wedding Cake on Our Honeymoon
“I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
three musty roses in cloudy water—
one week old,
model sweetly for confections
coyly collected in a frosted cake corner.
the entire sterile
kitchen gravitates around the center
stamens
once touched
by your rough-ridged thumb
and tasted by my cat’s
crave-scraping tongue.
It’s cold
enough to nip tips off
fresh marzipan pink petals
with sharp white teeth,
and we three do
consume past promises
hauled in by flimsy
fishnets
I wove from the whispering weeds in
your mint green irises.
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