i am slicing strawberries into delicate hearts and placing
the thin wisps of fresh sweet fruit onto a perfectly
balanced pile of exactly seven pancakes, which you
have cooked for us to share. we eat five. i plan to have
the leftovers for breakfast tomorrow, but i end up eating
them for dinner, or maybe i clumsily drop them on the
kitchen floor on the way to the refrigerator, whipped
cream smearing onto the faux hardwood.
later, distracted while cleaning the frying pan and measuring
cups as i wait for you to return from work, staring out the
window above the sink, framed with airy gingham curtains. as
i absently roll a sprig of basil between my greening thumb and
forefinger, i think of the coast, where we drink cheap wine and
wet our ankles in the water, pink lipped and laughing, singing
to the expanse of the sea. oh, life could be a dream, if i could
take you up in paradise up above…
outside, the scrub jays, sharp and midday-ocean blue, are
screaming, looking for their loves in the blinding green of the
summer oak. my dog and your cat—our dog, our cat— share
the strawberry leaves. they love those damn strawberries at
least as much as we love each other.
Milo Merrill (he/they) is a trans poet from Northern Oregon. He has been previously published by High Shelf Press and Cathexis Northwest Press. Much of his time is spent hanging out with his dog and flitting from hobby to hobby, finding it impossible to settle on a singular outlet.