portion of the artwork for Jeanann Verlee's poem

cleave
Jeanann Verlee

He plopped it down like a mound of bad pudding
but it settled upright, a proud cupcake,
skin still prickling like gooseflesh,
the brown button at its peak popping up
like a thermometer from a perfectly broiled
rump roast, saluting the way it did for clumsy
school boys behind the library under thick
pink sweaters, a gumdrop even the anesthesiologist
wanted to pop into her mouth.


Return to Archive





FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010