On some days, her vessel feels akin to
A tub of ice cream that’s been hollowed
Out of cheeriness, a void borne of acerbic
Text exchanges, unyielding lovers,
Debilitating familial obligations,
Signed legal dramas and
Cremated dreams.
On others, it’s scraped clean by
Favourite t-shirts unravelling,
Overshot highway exits, spilled coffee,
Returned packages, and wilted succulents.
The dairy farm’s afar, the cow won’t milk,
The churner’s broken and the sugar’s run out.
Yet, on the rare occasion that she strolls under
A canopy of white jasmines or brushes past
An orange cat, a dribble of Sicilian
Pistachio condenses to the bottom.
ThePurpleFenix 