Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2015  v14n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Ambien Oatmeal
for Susan

Mixing spoon in hand, she
Dropped her pink robe
Onto the kitchen floor,

Stepped slowly on top of it,
And rolled her body
Into the knots of wind

That had left Michigan
Four decades ago, thinking
About dancing and

How the leather seat
Of the white Corvette
Felt on her sweet, firm ass.

She danced in the kitchen,
And couldn’t understand
The fear on my face

As the dance continued.
One cup of coffee creamer,
Some almond milk, cinnamon

Sticks to your ribs, she sang,
Still dancing, still smiling
In a way she hadn’t in all

The years since leaving that.
She went on: With butter,
You can make the oatmeal

Slide down your throat,
All hot and spicy, like
Detroit in the ’70s,

When the north wind blew
Over the miles, and I swear
Little Stevie could see again.

She dropped to her knees then,
Stunned at how profound this
Oatmeal dance had become.

She licked the spoon, glancing
In that special Ambien way,
Saying Sammy, this

Could have been you.
Pink robe, cinnamon stick,
Traces of that once wild crop.  end  

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