This Is The Poem

I keep the poems you’ve read me in the jar under my tongue,
rave about your fingers around the cup, green smoothie at the co-op,
sex on the rug by the window minted & antique all at once,
sepia of an April morning. I’ve got waffles on the griddle,

with an egg for you, our wrinkled clothes on the floor, my instinct, the iron. 
I lie down in the equally quiet two AM & two PM, both of which are poems 
in the mouth of that moon, pink & full, time the fake law of staring 
for too long at any light, even a screen, the act of measuring driven, 

I think, by the idea of promise. Needy, maybe, the way we want & want
more, how my desire tops you & topples over into the next morning, sweet 
sting in a bowl of rolled oats with too much cinnamon. We make a life 
in the imperfect kitchen, this reeking compost the gum of the living, so much light

through the window, how even when we leave them out, the greens refuse to wilt.

LISA SUMME

Lisa Summe is the author of Tell Me Twice (YesYes, 2027) and Say It Hurts (YesYes, 2021). She is associate poetry editor for Brink. You can find her running, playing baseball, or eating vegan pastries in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, or at lisasumme.com.