by Alison Amato
Mom always told me to be home before two a.m.–
All the drunks are on the road after that.
And there we were, a pair of young drunks, minutes shy
of three a.m., using our loud whispers at your brother’s kitchen island.
We made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
in the dim light over the stove. More peanut butter
or more jelly? You asked. And I’m never sure
what to do with my hands, but with that question
I touched the divot in your chin and your mouth curled.
It was after three a.m. and we were two
sets of seedless raspberry lips, buzzing on white bread
knowing no difference between last night and this morning.
Alison Amato lives in Maryland and studied creative writing at Florida Atlantic University. Her work has been published in Sweet Lit, South Florida Poetry Journal, and Thimble Literary Magazine.
Hawaii Pacific Review 