a sight,

the day you spooned and placed all this life within me,

and fed me the spirit to never falter 

though i lay crooked at this table.
a spirit and a promise to keep

it going and know there’s soul

where the warmth, the food of your faith lands as it hits my soul.
that i may not always be right-

might be too spicy-

too salty-

too bland-

doing too much, 

too much on the palate.
that buds abloom and taste to enjoyment is

relative like the realisation-

this space


is all we have to make the base

of the selves- the us we place at the table.


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