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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