You Are What You Eat brackets And Drink Close Brackets

Her hair was cream cooling in the pantry
And her eyes were hot buttered scones
And her look was a pancake’s flip, one side done
And her teeth were fat oysters from Bantry bay
Her nose was that liqueur you can never remember the name of
And her back, her back, was Sunday apple pie
And her shoulders were risotto - sometimes rissoles
Her freckles were grated nutmeg
Her scent was crushed blackberries
And her last smile was fresh baked bread
And her song was sweet and sour
And her tongue was Mississippi mud pie
And her laugh was milk and honey
And her arguments were those strange dips from M&S
Her neck was lemon sorbet
And her Adam’s was an apple
Her breasts were double baked Alaska
Her belly was gooseberry fool
And her arms were custard with the skin on
Her elbows bananas, or cucumbers when angry
And her wrists were medium sometimes overdone
Her handshakes were milkshakes, raspberry flavoured
And her fingers were new potatoes in their skins
And the palms of her hands were crème brulee
You have to crack with a spoon
And her shadow was spiced wine mulled
And her heart was a mince pie
And her belly button was a date, without the stone
And her private parts were figs, and figs, and figs
Her stretch marks were surprisingly, stretch marks.
And her arse was bread and butter pudding
Her legs were asparagus tips
Her calves were liver and onions
Her knees bubble and squeak
And her feet were kippers, lightly cured
And her footprints were soda bread.
Her final promises were four-minute eggs with the tops hammered in.
Her one-liners the best malts, bought by friends.
And the last time they talked
She was his breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea and midnight feast
By candle light, the crumbs in his unmade bed,
They told him. And he knowing, you are what you eat,
Brackets, and drink, close brackets, having eaten
Was silent. Was her.

by jay Arr

Comments (1)

I like your poem. It sizzled like crispy bacon in the pan.