Sunday Brunch

My lack of words had never sounded as sweet
as they did on the night my tongue was tangled
inside out and up with yours,
but had I known heaven could be found
drowning inside your mouth, I would have
met you there, months or a minute sooner,
at that place on the corner of ninth street
where they dumped sawdust on the floor
and absinthe down our throats.
My rush of words had never tasted as sweet
as they did on the morning my tongue was swollen
to twice its size with the memory of your name,
but had I known hangovers could be cured
dying of laughter between swallows of champagne
and freshly squeezed oranges, I would have
met you there, months or a minute sooner,
at that place on the corner of eleventh street
where they serve pesto on everything and name
their fanciest eggs anything other than ‘Benedict’.
Had I known that drinking on impulse and dining
with artists and their entourage; the crackheads
and the criminals, on one given Saturday night
would bleed into something that tasted like
unrequited love on any given Sunday, except the one
when I turned up two weeks too late and far too broke
to order the eggs named anything other than Benedict.

© Nicole Lyons 2019

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