When love was a fudgesicle shaped like a
frosted, mud-coated cathedral window
hoisted on a tongue depressor (say ahh),
we would nibble, lick, suck, and wonder how
its slick, dwindling mass still managed to melt,
stream with reckless speed down our tiny, pale
pirate’s plank, drool and dry until it felt
like tar stuck on our thumbs and fingernails.
Palates and lips numb from cold, we’d bear all
suffering; result to scraping wet wood
with our teeth when those last stubborn lumps called
for risky measures. Sometimes splinters would
curl up, find a gum, take pain to new heights—
pinpoint omens of future lonely nights.
Roger Armbrust
July 27, 2007
