Unsure of what it was,
we scratched it with our finger nails.
Tasted it. It melted at the edges
and multiplied under a microscope:
a fractal sponge scooped
out of strawberry ice cream.
Emptier and emptier it expanded,
wide caverns of paper milk
spun into suggestion’s opposites.
We shrank to slide inside,
to slick our skins on sugar membranes
and dig toes into the ebb tide
of melted cream, falling away.
We shivered to the pulse that marked
each hollow exponent’s explosion.
I ate my heart and wondered
if you’d wish on us enormity,
to fill the grottos
with opposition for entertainment.
I’d never been so happy
as when I was small and sugar
-slicked beside you
in all that waxing emptiness.
I ached to stay,
our toes sole landmarks
in a wide, delicious country.
But you were a lush, indelicate girl.
You dairy-stank and swelled, fast,
merciless as a guillotine; you
leaked from fractal windows.
I clung to you; first a child,
then a tick or trace of pollen.
I was a single cell before
your skin opened
permeable and I
slipped into you.
Imagine my surprise
to find your cell walls
scrumptious, studded with
frozen fruit, expanding
ever lonelier in runny
fractal sponges
of strawberry ice cream.
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