By Meghan Malachi
a fissure in the dough,
a crack in the fondant,
a curve in a ceramic dish.
an egg—pan fried, sunny side up,
bubbling with empty, white hills.
a point of glossy batter wets the crumbs.
a tender bruise on the fruit.
birthmarked with burnt milk floating.
a fat link of sausage—uncut
and half eaten.
hands join together,
sticky with prudence and syrup.
sleepy eyes sneak themselves
open for puddles of dirt and feet.
a plea that this never ends.
then: a rusty fork,
cute with grease.
Meghan Malachi is a data analyst and poet from New York City. Her work is published or forthcoming in Fresh Air Poetry, Isacoustic, Writers With Attitude, and The Honey Mag. She lives in Chicago, Illinois, USA.