Sweet-talk me

with that bitter dud
in your fruit bowl,

that princess of pulpy words
and citrus saliva.

your tongue
turned lemon.

You would count
my sins in Polish.
Each one a child
who forgot to keep running,
only to disappear under the blackened tongue.

I guess I don’t remember
our emptiness clapping,
mouth open,
our house sagging,

As if I had not realized
myself that I was growing
interesting, grey;
tired of being the funniest
person in the room.
a screwed up mess.

So, tell me.

Tell me
the zest of us
was a grove of apples.

Meghan Quinlan grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan and currently lives in the Pacific Northwest. She received her BA in English Literature from Purdue University.

This is Meghan's first publication.