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.