there's a peppermint in her palm,
she's unwrapped it for me
so i don't get the sugar on her lips.
the swirl–
red and white
and pink,
where he couldn't keep his hands off her–
reminds me of a place
between her hips and two shoulders
the place i sold my soul to,
where i write all my odes to.
my mother may never meet her
but they can find each other
over the tea table.
and i'll find her when i knit her sweaters,
large,
so they still fit in spring.
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