Vanille Abricot Comptoir Sud Pacifique
I’ve never been sweet, but two dabs
behind the ear, and I’m a sugar cookie,
a walking confection, light as vanilla meringue.
I strolled downtown, past a park where children
abandoned slides, tumbled like chimpanzees
from the jungle gym, begging their mothers for candy.
The ice cream parlors were mobbed for tutti frutti.
The bakeries sold out of snickerdoodles,
shortbread, ladyfingers, then barred their doors.
I had a craving, too, so stepped inside
a hipster bar. The patrons’ nostrils flared;
they tossed their PBRs and ordered rounds
of craft cocktails with muddled apricot,
agave nectar, blood oranges,
vermouth and local cider. Their jaws ached
for a taste of me. One skinny boy
followed my trail, through the town gone mad
for sweetness, back to my cottage in the woods.
He told me his name as I peeled away his jeans,
but I just called him Hansel. The skinny boys
are all called Hansel, and they fatten up just fine.
“Vanille Abricot Comptoir Sud Pacifique” is from Honeymoon Palsy (Measure Press, 2017).