Kristin Garth

Burnt Sugar

White knuckling days in black lingerie
beneath the candied apple tree where we
once strayed. A wily ancestor laid 
the enchanted seed into ancient soul she 
tended feverishly.  What trade was made 
for this peculiar fruit to glisten like glass 
above two dissolute neighbors, limbs splayed,
below an edible chandelier which casts 
rosy penumbra on lust now disappeared?
Limbs lingering above fecund, extant 
with dulcet if distant flesh, jeweled veneer 
elicit no hunger, no longer enchant.
Smell only burnt sugar if you return — 
a sticky seared stump, something singular spurned.

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