If you came over right now,
I’d taste the blackberry jam
you ate alone at breakfast.
Or maybe those ginger drops
you pop
in your mouth
when leaving the house.
Yesterday
when I stopped over
I noticed three clementines
in a wire basket
on the counter.
Maybe your lips would be laced
with citrus,
eager and bold,
your neck
warm with salt
because you always
break a sweat
when the sun has crested
over the rise
just before my street.
In the doorway
out of breath
no words spoken
back pushed hard
against the jamb.
Your hands
press down
on my shoulders,
the damp dish towel
falls from my fist,
a cabbage moth flutters in
to crash land
on the window.
This is how I imagine it,
how I know it would be.

Kristen M. Ploetz

Kristen M. Ploetz

Kristen M. Ploetz is a writer and former land use attorney living in Massachusetts. Her work has been published (or is forthcoming) with Atlas & Alice, Hypertext Magazine, Swarm Literary Journal, The Hopper, Gravel, Cognoscenti, Washington Post, The Healing Muse, The Manifest-Station, The Humanist, and elsewhere. She is currently working on a collection of essays and short stories.
Kristen M. Ploetz

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