The sun melts like sherbert,
and in my remembering,
I’m seven months pregnant,
lying on the couch,
my feet a straw dangling, as I
watch the lime within me expand
and the navel orange set below the horizon.
And once upon a time,
the raspberry in my bloodstream
helped her little hand rise within me,
a fist bump, perhaps in congratulations
that I had somehow made it through another
double scoop,
the carnival of school in early spring,
and what is left of our evening
is all about the sugary things.
I watch the colors dissolve,
the artificial flavors bubble;
today her digits double.
©2024 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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