Your worries ran like picklejuice that day
into the sweet daily dough of our marriage
and into it I stuck my spite like peppercorns.
We fired it with anger,

then burst apart from the untasty mess,
you to your room, I to mine,
our stung tongues heavy in our mouths.

While you worked away your worry in the night,
I baked away my spite, brought a plate late
to your room with milk, crisp little spice discs
the way you’ve brought me roses of regret,
sharp with remorse, sweet with love.

First published in Chachalaca Poetry Review

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