bananas and milk

When you escaped to the kitchen,

my footsteps echoed yours up narrow stairs.

You stood waiting for me, ready

with two bowls of bananas and milk—our comfort

food, our shared consolation.

We shook restless dust from our shoulders,

brushed it beneath your cupboards.

You pulled your mother’s tarot cards from a shelf.

They were fiction to us,

but you told me you could read my quickening

heartbeat in their hieroglyphs.

I tasted bananas and milk and the bitter

salt of the future where it doesn’t belong.


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