I am the fondant on this broken-glass cake
I make it smooth
Bite into it, tear me open with your teeth and bleed
I bring you the partially-dismembered birds of love.
And the rat heads of affection
I play the kazoo outside your window at odd hours
Until you remember you are a pro
Professional, that is
And you shut the window and the glass breaks
Did you see the swirls of frosting?
Three sticks of butter
It took me three hours to bake this cake
For you, because you were having a bad day
The orange roses are wilted
and the post office
won’t return my phone calls
I sang extra loud in the car today
With the radio up
Until the speakers rattled and tore
What’s another word for
‘My youngest brother’s a banished lord,
For he has betrayed eight ladies fair
And seemely is to see,
And as he rode over the plaine,
He chas’d the deer now him before,
He’s woo’d her for her yellow hair,
Left the lady sorrowful behind,
And a’ women’s curse in his company’s gane.
Curious about centos? Check out some of the other centos that the yeah write community has assembled for our January poetry slam, or stop by the coffeehouse for a rundown on what a cento is and how it works!
“Help me now and I’ll fix it, do not be afraid, listen closely, you must hear my secret.”
There once was a time when all I wanted was for you to be mine.
These things strewn on your desk are talismans in which I store my gratitude, the keys
mail and the collection notices that would chain
time, all those blank days separating the minutes we could steal.
I breathe it in, as much as I can hold.