Poem in Which We Eat Breakfast Late

fried eggs with a bloody heart
high saturation

blue dust clouds / your irises

a hair in my eye i can’t look away

elastic & cotton around my thigh
(your hand, my wrist)
too distracted; slips with small steps

two fingers hooked into the hem
a bunch of pink / a pore, a dimple

after milk in the tea / stirs hot
spoon in my mouth
my tongue in then my teeth

winter / grey marl to my waist
my thighs the point where skin
we’ve never lived in houses with shutters

lines of light between the blinds
stretch until you can see me

one arm on the formica
in later on’s pink eyes you looked
clean-shaven and i ran a hand just over

just above your arm and i felt
the heat rise there like hairs

Charlotte Geater

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