by Treehouse Editors
she was hard-shelled and brittle
a soft-boiled smooth oval of
silk gloss and rich sulfur paste
thick enough to stick to the roof of
your mouth, your tongue, your teeth
clinging and hard to swallow.
she left persistent flicks of jelly-glue
that dried like shredded snake skin
on the cold surface of the kitchen table
and jaw-jarring hidden grit bits
opaque and sharp as glass, to remain
embedded in soft gum tissue
for hours, days, years.
care must be taken.
one slip could send her hurtling
through the air, a bursting mass
of slippery-hot goo and
stinging shell shards to the back
of your unsuspecting head
viscous drippings down your bare neck.
turn quickly to see her
once again polished, intact.
think it was imagined, think
it must have been.
then notice you have taken to
tip-toeing around her, not to feel
the scattered fragments as
they cut into your feet.
Deborah Thompson writes mostly short, memoir-themed poetry. Her hope is that her poetry will ring true to the experience of her readers, and that they will feel accompanied and empowered to speak their own truth. She has previously been published in the 16th edition of PoemMemoirStory, a literary journal of the University of Alabama at Birmingham.