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My boy kisses like summer apricots and
Sunday mornings spent walking
on the old pier’s creaking planks.
His kisses are gilded,
they’re the pollen bees carry to grow
strawberries, and so I see him
in every flower, every blade of grass,
every fruit I bite through
and let the juice run down my chin
and stain my teeth.
My boy’s got eyes like warm honey,
like a glass of whiskey on nights you like it.
Like molten gold that melts your skin off,
and you let it.
Cora Hyatt is a poet, student, and Indiana transplant presently living in Portland, Oregon. She has been published in Writers Magazine, Cordella Magazine, and Five South, among others. Read more @lipglossdiet on Instagram. If delivering flowers, send red carnations.
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