an imperfect figure
by Tegan Daly
is making biscuits in the morning just
for myself worth it
kneading in the butter
filling the kitchen with godly golden
crumble smell
breaking open like a confession
steam gasping into the air
apron covered in floury
handprints not caring
that it’s hot in the kitchen I will
say of course and more
and then opening the jam
last summer’s Michigan blueberry
the near-black nectar smothering
licking my fingers
I can live with the softness
padding my ribs for this the crumbs
all over the sticky counter
like waking up in the bed of the one I love
a trail of my clothes set loose
across the floor
unconcerned if its messy
the answer is yes and please
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