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by Amy MacLennan

Four more cloves crushed into hummus,
spread on toast, a mashing
so thick with garlic it almost pollutes us,
hangs on our air, our tongues pickled
though I kiss you and can't sense it in your mouth,
just my own, and the sting stays
until we sleep and my sweat runs with it then,
spilling into the quilt, spicing the feathers,
and in such a stew I dream of my hair
curling out to my feet, of your eyes
changing color again, I fall into snow
and melt it down to slush, orange birds
fly from between my legs and I smell
mango, coconut, until I jerk awake,
my body damp, a mist still in my eyes,
knowing nothing but my craving for sugar
and the taste I know of you.

Amy MacLennan has been published or has work forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, River Styx, Pearl, Linebreak, Cimarron Review, New Plains Review, Folio, and Rattle. Her poems are included in the anthologies Eating Her Wedding Dress: A Collection of Clothing Poems from Ragged Sky Press and Not a Muse: The Inner Lives of Women from Haven Books.