User

R.S. Carlson

I wish I knew which half of your face was wry
and which was straight; or why what you extend –
hand or promise – never seems to stand
my slightest questions poised so gingerly
I think of them as peaks of cream on pie,
bland, curled to meet aesthetic demand
(handsome, even, to the serious gourmand)
high above a candied heart: a fly
stopping for a taste could make one drop,
so fragile the crest. Any suggestion, though,
showing I recall what words ago
lopped promises in two to prop
new facades against old lies, and you
spew back hurt at my lack of faith in you.