Canopic Jar

She turns the spoon slowly, stirring the peanut butter between licks of her oiled lips. “It’s salty! Not sweet? It was always sweet. As a kid I had it.”

Not since then?

“No, no,…” puzzled query of the self, checkingchecking, runonthebanks but “No!”.                                                            sure of herself this time.

It’s good, right?
This ain’t Smuckers, babe.
Spoon dips, lipspartempty. Tattoo of Ka on an olive egg calf and supper for Isis because she’s hungry allthetime, so full of it in flesh, perfume and the gods know she’s on my couch, lounging drapped with folds of pin-stripped duvet and pecking at jasmine tea, leaves in cichlid-blue waters too hot to swim.

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