Breakfast at Epiphany’s

Barbeque sauce

Smothered on his bacon,

Like my kisses on the

Stubble of his chin;

Crispy, charred.

Two tea-bags

Cuddled in his cup;

Crushed to copy the

Strength of our love;

Bitter, timeless.

One tea-bag

Huddled in waves waving

Goodbye, wishing for

You to return.

A bronze penny coined

Without your face,

Now I’m all out of luck;

Counterfeited, broke.

Gluten-free bread

Baked in numbers,

Four-hundred and eighty-nine

Days that would

Not roll around again

Ballooned in his mouth

Like the baby, I will

Never get to carry.

Two china plates

Divorced on the kitchen table;

Yours smooth and sweaty

Like your hands

Sealed to mine, swinging

In rashes of sunlight.

My half-eaten bacon sandwich

Slumped into a depression;

Raw, restless.

Two lovers

Ate for the last time

Without knowing,

Without even knowing.

I’m starved of your affection

That fed me until full.

My knife and fork are

Handles of a clock, ticking,

Telling me breakfast is



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