The pulp sticky on your fingers

 

The pulp sticky on your fingers

Sometimes your hope 

Is a yellow blanket

Flung haphazard on the couch

Sometimes it is 

The child tripping on the 

Way up the steps

Splitting his lip on the ledge

And looking back with a 

Shaky smile and teary eyes

Other times your hope

Is a room full of 

Voices talking over each other,

In the familiar way

That only breeds affection

It is the breaking 

Of the yolk running down

Over the sides

It is the beetle burning

In the flame on the log

Just trying to return home

It is the split orange

Perfectly portioned for me and you,

A feast prepared in anticipation,

The pulp sticky on your fingers

– olivia gwyn