Vanilla

Let loose, the comet trails darkness,
scratchy bright silence
birth canal to IV tubes,
preserving the smell.

You tolerate the taste
of missing tonsils, floating inside
an otherwise piffled universe
full of sloshing stars.

A few raw hours later
you’re the grounded pigeon, head
stretching to make the ice cream
go down slowly.

Author of the article

JW Burns lives in Florida. Poems and short prose have appeared in several journals, most recently Triggerfish Critical Review, After Happy Hour, Smoky Blue Literary Arts Magazine .