When I tell you you’re a sweetie pie,
you say that I’m the sweetest pie,
and I can’t help but think
of a Shoo Fly,
made with brown sugar and vinegar,
me who is so darting
yet somehow insubstantial, sweet,
sad, sour—

But for you, I think of a Moon,
because of the spoon
of your backside, also just because
I like the name. 

But a Moon Pie’s made with marshmallow,
and there’s not much of the marshmallow in you—
a soft heart,
but what really comes to mind
is a tree branch,
because of the way the muscles line
your shoulders, sides, the lean strength
that bends,
the way a branch is surprisingly green
beneath the bark. 

But what kind of pie is made with branches?
The closest is a nest—

I think then of how you hold me
at your chest,
me, who is so
mercurial, and how you would never even think
of Shoo Fly—
no, you’d never call that
my pie. 


No offense meant to Shoofly Pie, or those who like it! Have a great day.  (All rights reserved, as always.)

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