So Quianna made me some cupcakes. They were good. Poem good.
Afters
This is a cupcake, not a muffin,
muffins have no icing – this has enough in
to make a grown man saccharine, or at least
a more excitable beast. This palm-span feast
of heavy cream, shortening, sugar and butter
and eggs and god-knows-what has me shudder-
ing across the line where words begin to falter,
where desire holds sway. The glisteny way the water-
lily-white frosting is bursting with the lush
insistence, here I am, its brush-
stroked largess and malleable lines
looming beyond its papery confines
and stippling, drippling from your skin-bare
wrists, enlarge your curlicue smile as you declare
here you are.
No poems tomorrow. I don't know what I'm gunna do.
Thanks for reading,
Dave.
