Poetry

Toast

The butter didn’t just melt on my toast this morning.

It oozed itself lovingly into the pockets of air

to become one with it. The bread was very fluffy.

 

The other day, the toast burnt. The butter simply sat

in a puddle on its blackened surface.

I swirled it with my finger; it looked like a golden elixir

gone wrong. I used it to write my name on the table.

 

She didn’t like that. I had to wipe it up immediately

using a kitchen towel. The yellow liquid stained the fabric.

My name had tarnished something of hers.

 

I make my own toast now.

Poetry

The time I saw a quarter

It looks exactly like victory – if you squint a little. A hungry mouth waiting to swallow the world up whole, too famished to savour the taste. Someone once told me that taking such a meal would never truly sustain a person: half of a half, carrying on in a waking dream fishing for starfish to throw at the sky.