Sawyer Fell

I do not know how to bake 
something from scratch, 
like my mother’s cookies. 
With her instinctual precision 
and her habitual familial ease. 
I did not inherit this side of her.

Somewhere between a flower and a coffin
lies the colorless sunrise outside your windows.
I am devoted and still breathing like the Elin.
You are innocent and still sleeping like the Pothos.

To be a woman is to be a banquet. 

Eclectic, savory, distinguished. 

A summer potluck of femininity; 

a Thanksgiving toast to masculinity; 

an Easter brunch with androgyny. 

I wish I had found the butterfly before I knew how to kiss.
Then, I would have kissed you without a flinch.
I would have slept with you until the day was missed.
I would have stayed out of pleasure instead of lust.

I learned that butchering purity is ungodly,
yet on the silver platter, I see a snow lamb as fired slabs.

When I am furious with Change, I berate it;
“I am tired of your unrelenting beatings,
tired of your latency, then rapidity,
tired of your inconsistency, no warnings.”