comb on dresser

I’m the Fruit and the Tree

I was blond hair with gods
for hairdressers when you
circled my ironed bob
clockwise and back again.
A cherry picked a moment ago
by your index finger and thumb,
the same hand you held the glass
with that evening we became

one year old.

We’re still babies in our world yet
I’m ready to nestle between layers
of Black Forest cake bathing in cream.
We scream and sugar

is just a jar sitting on the shelf.
Your favorites are pickles and sauerkraut
and I think how I’d be better off
in your mouth instead of mine

where I tumble and turn
every time I speak.

Exit. Don’t save.

It always breaks in pursuit of
another start.

But I’ve bloomed
and fed the ground

countless times in the heart.