by Allison Showstead
The smell of cinnamon
An autumn afternoon
The soft sun overhead
We barely had to squint
To see against the glow
Apples sitting on the table
A pie on the windowsill
That hadn’t even cooled yet
I wanted it to be like
The movies
I wanted it to feel
Like my grandmother’s
Stuffy kitchen in the South
Side of Boston – too hot sometimes,
But always warm
You and I sat a foot apart on the porch
And I ached to touch
Wanted warmth so badly
My fingers trembled like
I was starved for you
Your father was an officer
He taught his sons to be strong
But not pliable
Your house never smelled
Like pie or too many bodies
I took what you could give me
There is simplicity in settling
In and settling down and I think
We were scared to love too much
For fear that it would ruin us
Allison Showstead is a recent college graduate living in Boston, Massachusetts. She earned a Bachelor’s degree in Business with a concentration in Accounting from Northeastern University. She enjoys traveling and reading. Her writing is inspired by the work of Warsan Shire and Deborah Landau.