Shownotes
A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.
Butterscotch
Amy Laessle-Morgan
Somewhere between the amberblush streetlight of Division
and the butterscotch stain on the back of my throat,
there was a glasslike moment
nearbent
but not yet breaking.
Half-formed, honeydrunk on the hour
slipping past the soft machinery of becoming
unbecoming
rewinding
rethreading.
Warm, butterfat air washing in subtle
breathing through the cracked window taxicab
teacuplight broken open on my cheek
whispering nothing is permanent
except the way we almost changed.
There was always something burning—
toast
bridges
the last good version of me I kept resuscitating
with mouth-to-mouth-watering memory.
Tonight, I’ll wear that dress you loved
in the color of skinbrushed apologies
while the past rides shotgunsilent
adjusting the mirror like it still matters how I see myself
because when mirrors grow honest
the corridors echo less—
as everyone pours out.
Let us go then, you and I
through the goldblood hours
where no one teaches you how to bleed pretty—
not in the swanpale wrist pressed
to cold porcelain tile way
half-lit in someone else’s forgetting.
You learn it knees to marble
cheek to linoleum
in radio silence buzzing through your teeth
playing love songs that didn’t learn the language.
He liked it leaning in disrepair
so I sucked the ghostsweet butterscotch slow.
I let it split goldenglass hard and sharp
the bloom red blooming—
behind teeth
a salty flood.
It cut me—
but I didn’t spit it out.
I kept it
I kept it all.
More from Amy Laessle-Morgan ↓
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Mentioned in this episode:
Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only
Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice.
We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.
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