Can I ask a favor?
And by favor, I mean can I give you a slice?
a piece of my mind, cut deli thin and seasoned
so the opinion is easy to consume—
close your eyes and imagine, it can be
the tasteless melting of a communion wafer
without the bitter after wash of wine—
more often than not it’s grape juice, but that
can be our secret.
Or I can offer you words—
to explore the depth of yours and wonder
at the whispers in the margins—
where notes are often written, yet ignored.
Because comments are turned off by default
when you print.
And we’ll keep it secret—
our modern version of oven-baked lemon juice
that curls the corners of pages
and turns them yellow—
yellow, the color of burn and sun and friends—
Can I give you my heart—
fresh carved and bathed in butter to marinate
and pull the flavor of emotion as it bakes and flakes
like those biscuits your mom used to make us
and we’d pull the layers apart and melt
into each other’s mouths—
because I am too afraid to speak.