Subdued, I resolve:
I must savour you in morsels.

I attempt to stem thin red tears
With the gentle graze
Of my serrated edge.

The problem is sandwiches

My problem has always been sandwiches.

Eight-years-old, explaining to my mum that love is in sandwiches;
That you really know someone loves you if they cut your sandwich into quarters.
Not halves.
Love was the effort in that extra cut.

Eight-years-old, already accustomed to quantifying love
In sandwiches.
Loved more or less each day
By butter spread to edges and cheese thinly sliced.

My mother did not know to show love in this way
Until I told her.

Eight-years-old, I gifted her the guilt of sandwiches.
Knowing now the importance I’d ascribed to this arbitrary detail,
Her thoughts filled with years of sandwiches.
Each sandwich that followed cut precisely into squares.

Growing older, I became embarrassed
Of her delicately quartered sandwiches;
Forgot that extra cut was love.
Too self-conscious, I shouted at her to stop. The other kids had halves.

Now, an adult, I make my own lunch.
Sometimes sandwiches on simple days.

Now an adult,
I still make the same mistakes.


I want to write you songs

I often write you poems, but I want to write you songs.

Simple syllable structures do not adequately capture your complexities.
The staccato of careful couplets cannot convey your dulcet dynamism.

I would sing to you in bird squawks and animal growls;
My shy tongue unable enunciate your beauty.
Even in song, I would fail to articulate your significance to me.

You are pure symphony.
An orchestra would better capture the melodic cacophony of your perfect contradictions.

I would transpose words for notes and beats;
Encode emotion in a worthier form of art.
I would write refrains for us to hum together;
A new lexicon of love.

I want to write you songs but instead I write you poems

Knowing words alone, no matter how carefully arranged,
Will never quite be enough.



Together we wither.
Desperate dysfunctional symbiosis.
Roots wreathe mutual asphyxiation
But we bloom brief, bright
Necrotic ecstasy.
Our small deaths assure me that I’m alive.

Peanut butter lover

He is salt-sweet peanut butter.
He is the contradiction of crunched nuggets nestled smooth in peanut butter.
He is rich dairy and earth nutty, peanut butter.
Palette-conquering and claggy;
Stubborn to the roof of your mouth peanut butter.
In his resistance to comply with dry bread,
Unspreadable, peanut butter.
Sits comfortable on hot toast,
Melts in deep– peanut butter.
Smooths over crumb roughness, peanut butter.
With the lid left off too long;
Top-crusted, coagulated and congealed,
Inconsistent, peanut butter.
In a world of nut allergies, inconsiderate peanut butter.
Rebelliously and unapologetically, he has always been peanut butter.
I let him know I love him,
But I love a lot of things.
Peanut butter.