my offering

I have no parents to gift you

or warm hugs, with mother limbs attached/

no supple pies to savor,

or hot drinks when rain cascades,

no Holiday meals, a palette of greens and browns

no laughter or songs passed down/

no comfortable silences, or uncomfortable sighs/

no wish ladled cider to imbibe, or fire’s crackling, opening up the sky

I do however, carry warmth between my thighs, wet lips, from

songs I sing two octaves too high/

sweet maltose comas,

where conga rhythms vacillate—

a hip spring tongue saddened/

a rain induced yawl,

where breasts become anchors

and my mouth

a sprawl/

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