BLTs and Madras

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

Snapshots of syllables,

floating in the fish bowl,

read like sweet tea from his lips.

Every time someone unpacks the hushed suitcase

padlocked beneath the bed,

a teddy bear asks a ballerina to dance with him.

Memories unfold, like a map, velvet creased where we thumbed our future.

The apologies were tucked in and given goodnight forehead kisses.

 

We were drifting, with orangutan smiles

before these chained anchors of assumption.

Before the traffic jam vandalism of snap judgments,

directions were merely a suggestion.

Do you remember when we danced to the honking of horns

 in the coral chorus that set the sky on fire?

The boys were blue like jazz,

the girls were buttered dandelions

sweet toothed fragment wishes.

Waiting to be picked,

in a balmy August night.

I can’t help but look at the clock,

hear the echoing footsteps of our laughter in this empty, sterile room.

Foresight is a flashback

in this flooded basement of confessions.