The Sugar Idea by Lana Bella

I am not a silent poet

She stares 
at her tea cup, 
pristine and 
porcelain stemmed; 
where chamomile 
sits on honey, 
and she mulls 
the day over.
 
When an idea 
pours down 
her throat, 
a runnel of warmth
shapes her anguish 
into melody.
She chews its fibrous, 
sugar-coated body 
inside cheekbones
like puffed up moons.
 
As a woman 
who is always late
to be taken in 
by new ideas, 
she let this one marry 
with flowing saliva, 
cloying and broken piles
of perfect slippery things.

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