Scorched Sugar
It’s hard to be soft inside.
To let your fluffy, cotton candy,
guts stay sweet and pink
when your throat is full of bile.
I’m choking and choked up.
I spit honey and vitriol
and I hope it clings and stings.
I’m a grown ass woman but
I ain’t your fucking Mamaw.
You can’t butter my biscuits
without getting burnt.
And I hope it blisters.
I’m a blackberry pie
with pricks and briars baked in,
sugar scorched and encased
in pure cast iron.
4 thoughts on "Scorched Sugar"
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Wow- very visceral!
Agree with Linda. I love the interplay of food/iron skillet/emotion in this declaration!
Fantastic, Misty! I read this first on Facebook and it’s even better the second time around. You are cooking.
I love this! So full of power and bite!