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Poetry: One Degree Fahrenheit

It is but one degree below sixty

eight fahrenheit and my fingers

are purple,

my skin flakes like baklava.

My fingertip cheeks 

blush and break and breathe in

the bleak gusts of sour wind.

They sing like a boiling teapot but 

they do not sing as pretty as the whistle 

harmonizer my nana bought for ten cents 

because her only sober daughter told her to. 

my fingertips are still purple. They decrescendo 

to a steady hum that makes my ears ring but 

at least my ears are not baklava. My ears are cherry 

tomatoes, too ripe from a cartilage piercing 

I got via Claire’s gun even though 

everyone says not to. 

My ears are not baklava, they are cherry 

tomatoes but you don’t like tomatoes. You love my ears 

anyway. You’ve never tasted baklava but you love

my fingers anyway. I run them under hot water 

to get rid of the purple which, like the Claire’s piercing gun

I know isn’t good but I do it anyway because I love purple 

but not that much. Hot water doesn’t get rid of baklava 

but that’s okay because I love baklava. I love 

tomatoes. My ears and my fingertips 

and my nose all look like tomatoes but you 

do not say “I don’t like tomatoes.” Instead 

you kiss me and now my cheeks too

are tomatoes, and you don’t mind. Your fingers 

are dry wine.

they move slowly and stick 

to my lips and my lips 

are thinly sliced beets marinating 

in Tupperware from last 

Tuesday’s batch 

stained 

by your wine.

One Comment

  1. Brenda Brenda October 19, 2020

    This resonates with me.❤️

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