Hot Buttered Biscuits

Eva Marie Reed

My sweet Irish puddin’ and pie—
I liked having you in my bed:
the smell of you in my sheets:
unmistakable, the scent of man.
I let you have my pillow and
my side of the bed:
had to crawl over you to get out.
Not that I minded.
I liked pausing over you
as I bounced into the kitchen for
a ripe strawberry.
Every move you made, I made with you,
spooning, like jelly and jam.
beside you all night,
the whole of my body touching you
warmed by the pulsing tempo of your
thesis
my toes
feathering the tops of your toes.
And in the morning,
the extraordinary aroma of sizzling
maple bacon filled my house:
Scrambled eggs and hot, buttered-biscuits,
apple-strawberry juice and soft-fried potatoes.
a note perched on the table says:
Back soon,
gone for frappuccinos.