Candy Dish Sonnet

Tacey M. Atsitty


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Already the heart-shaped dish on my end table

lies combed bare: long strips dug out

============== a cleaning out

============== a scratch in grain, table

 

scraps lain out so comely, meaning to love

or hold cacao or almonds—those striae

of protein. A deep cut, I tell the butcher,

I’ll take the heart as soon as you can give it:

 

a gift to the first child I come across. Crows

in trees lean in with every crumple the butcher

paper makes in my hand—soon the branches

will be as naked as bone china, and we, like

 

the skeletal sky, reach out for any sweet filling,

each drip-drop chocolate kiss staining our fingers.