Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Toast

Even though they brought it buttered,
you always had to ask for more,
so you could make it visible,
unwilling to believe it real
unless you saw it for yourself,
stainless gleaming the yellow bar.
And, if on the second pass,
an errant crumb lay on the stick—
like a mottle on the radiant
portrait of your vincible lung,
looming with its wait-and-seeness,
three months and take another look—
you had to go back, and scrape it clean.

 
selfieMichael Albright has published poems in various journals, including Moon City Review, Pretty Owl, and Uppagus, and has a chapbook forthcoming: In the Hall of Dead Birds and Viking Tools (Finishing Line, 2015). He lives on a windy hilltop near Greensburg, PA. with his wife Lori and an ever-changing array of children and other animals.
 

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