Ode to Sweet Potato

Sliced, diced, fried. Boo, I think about my thighs ; what it would be like
if you had thighs; how we’d cuddle, convincing ourselves we’ve been here
before. We mesh and mash so well together. You home. You castle. You market
where spices thicken the air: turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg — fold
into you like children out the rain. Every bite an invitation to taste the word
joy; savoring the process of bringing each other warmth.