By Kelly Bisby

Your curves slide like warm butter
across the kitchen counter.
Like butter for toast,
for mixing into cakes,
for grandpa’s breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and biscuits

Your eyes shine,
casting a blue that catches the imagination
of a thousand years of love
painted in aquamarine, and synesthesic scents of the aqua velvet
like your father’s aftershave.

You touch the soft hairs of your stomach,
your womb, warm and waiting.
Come my child, and sleep safely, develop.

Your delicate skin is untouched by the sun,
underneath your arms, and in between your legs,
with toenails painted lavender because you felt like it.

You drape yourself in white cotton skirts,
with hips swinging back and forth
to the rhythm of a music you call home.
You dance with eyes closed,
and lips curving upward in pleasure.

Your fingers caress the outline of a shoulder
hiding wings, shed last December
when you made snow angels on the incline
of a stranger’s front yard

while your grandpa fixed breakfast, a breakfast
of fried eggs, bacon and biscuits
And you watched the warm butter slide
across the kitchen counter.