I’m all cream and sugar when we slip into the dark,
Hiding in shadows like imaginary creatures, chittering.
In the distance, the music sounds like promises.
You gave me a ring by the lake, and I swallowed it.
I turned silver on the inside.
You planted gold on my lips, causing spoons and lockets
to pour out of me, a treasure trove of indiscretions,
that I collected in a silk bag to bury deep in the ground.
One day, I’ll read the book of us aloud to bored children.
I’ll dig up the bag of spoons and lockets, melt them down,
swallow them like I swallowed you in a car too small for love.
One day, lake music will have a name, and we’ll be in trouble then.
You put your hands up my skirt, and I taste apples on your breath.
I am silver and gold and rusty screws.
Beer kisses were always my favorite, those that
Were malty and unexpected, swallowed mid-laugh,
Igniting something that was never supposed to be,
Like naked bears, four-legged spiders, slotted soup spoons.
I felt more than heard your breath hiss, my head
a grasshopper in your lap, green wings stretching,
Seed popping like acorns against my tongue,
And, in the distance, the sound of traffic and alarm clocks.
Along the way, I kept willow branches wrapped in blue ribbon
Next to used condoms and shoplifted cans of corn, tucked in
the back of my closet, Easy Girl’s spell to make you remember.
Your winks, in a crowd, were as furtive as Christmas mice.
A dog barks on your breath when you sing,
“Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong.”
Heide Brandes is an Oklahoma-based award-winning journalist, editor, and travel writer who is dipping her toes into the wild world of poetry. Heide started her own freelance writing company in October 2012. She regularly contributes to numerous state, regional, and national publications. She has poetry pending in several journals in 2017. Besides freelancing fulltime, Heide is an avid traveler, medieval warrior, hiker, professional bellydancer and bellydance instructor and kind of a quirky chick who lives in Oklahoma City.