Melon Sugar
Virginia Wesche
Carmen Laskay

Our exquisite love is yesterday’s takeout
lukewarm, neglected on the counter.
I lie raw, seeping
in the wake of your savagery.
Every newly formed scab
brutally torn from flesh by your betrayals.

Where is the soothing balm?
The miracle elixir?

Will leftovers be better
the second time around?
Are they landfill bound?
Should we be grateful
for that one good meal?

I am a festering laceration.
Is amputation the key?