Thomas Mixon


I love the stiff and scraggly
ends of parsnips, paramours
I skin and strip too quick,
cutting my thumb I press
to lips like parapets
holding back the bleeding
heart declarations
tied to them, from wind.
I kiss myself and roast
the roots I salt and oil
propitiously, enough
seasoning to stymie
unrequited tenderness.
I confess: the parchment
paper wilts like the roquette
untouched since you’ve been gone,
left as decoration
for an unset table.
The oven timer frets
over what’s meant to be
a celebration.
I predicate success
despite burning the rest
of what I planned to eat.
The vinaigrette’s been reading
my thoughts the whole evening.
Balsamic in hand,
I stand up and undress.

Thomas Mixon has poetry and fiction in Lover’s Eye Press, Grim & Gilded, At Length, The Broadkill Review, and elsewhere.