He smiles
as apple pie smells
reach our shadowed room
from the oven
on steam
forced through
an open-mouthed pie bird
pricking the crust
its red erect body
half submerged
in fragrant bubbles
like hot soft breath
the pie shell
hardens and browns
melting apple slices
almost liquefy within
barely keeping their shapes
radiating and infusing
above and below
with sweetness
We laugh and whisper
while the pie bakes
our heated names
floating above our heads
I know it’s done
when I feel the bird’s
slight whistle in my ears
like a gentle tongue
Get the pie, he whispers
I fetch the pan and place it
on the bedroom sill
to cool
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
I love this. It looks beautiful and so do you. Brava! My favorite lines: “In fragrant bubbles/like hot soft breath…/” she said, longingly.
I love your poetry!