A Picnic, of Sorts

by Caitlin Munn

For starters, your smile,

A safety blanket of white clouds beneath me holds

our sticky fingers, our sweet cheeks:

Your illusion, my deceit.

A tea party of imposters.

Cakes with calculated crimes, vienetta with a vendetta;

I take a sip of sugary soda,

So, you ask, “am I satisfied?”

Chicken bones picked dry.

My pale paper palms grind hard with want for more.

Pastel yellow petticoat hanging loose,

Yet I see a meringue pie.

A pick and mix of emotion,

A bitten lip. The cookie mix melting in

a sun so bright and blinding.

A racing heart running slowly out of time

I quiver as you hunt my thoughts;

Honeybees that swarm like a sweet legion of lust.

Our picnic is ruined.

And I, my dear, am stuck.

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