Alike Pies, Truthful Psalms, Your Flower by Misty Rampart
Nothing is as valuable as kindness and that flirty decorous familiarity baked into the blueberry
cake she brought over. She’s a bangin’ black beauty and you’re enchanted, naturally, where she
hits you: that place so vague and recondite but still knowable.
Love can be tart and fragile like that, alike pies, and has a selective approach to guiding you
home to that place where you can stay, homely though it is, and forget going anywhere; travel is
for they who are lost but you’re not. You can stay home while the clouds pour and scatter gray
emotions in addition, like nine inch heels across the dance floor can close a dusty place down.
Like all beauties I’m knit into their agonizing death ray. It’s not mature.
She’s so alluring. You can imagine every curve as trouble and you’d be better-off to not tempt the
trembles, but she’s so exultant and what never goes out of style is the teaching of the pre-broken
heart, their number numberless in your juicy experience. You can see a colossal crush coming but
you don’t care; love will pour like pancake syrup as you willingly enter her vortex, as
consciously as any other person.
Well, miss, you can break me like a pencil, I’m so plastic and you’re so robust. It’s hard to
believe that while I’m sleepy you’re over at your place baking. I want to extend the boundary of
my knowledge, close you in my golden ring of truthful psalms.
With your tray of blueberry cake you made me aware of your flower and wonder if there wasn’t
a spiffy church that would welcome us anyway. But instead I’ll just inject more fuel to try and
shock a vein and make one small change.
My mom was spiritual but breakable and she set sail to snatch away from the tired any unused
cheer as if it were as necessary as the air. Hers was an iron wing carrying a pail of black and
white movies. I labored in similar ways and when I hit the sack my only regret was morning.
And in that quieter timeframe she’d be sitting on the sofa, the house filled with a paste-like
aroma that would fill my stomach before I’d even eaten anything. And all I could do is what I do
now: analyze it like summer, never finding an answer.
©2018 Misty Rampart
Misty Rampart is a freelance writer and publisher whose poems and stories have appeared in journals such as Featherlit, Uterine Eny, Mojave Heart and many others. She edits the erotica blog Pink Litter and has several other books available such as Lady Lack: Poems and the Wanda Casey Diary series.