a collection of spices,
rose petals, and orange rinds,
mixed in a bowl. We smell sweet,
but we’re dried and old. We look

pretty, my lavender and your
red berries. But we are caged
like two canaries. We had our days
before we were plucked, skinned

and shucked. Was I the one that
wanted more than to be bagged and
stored in your bedroom drawer? Sachets
tied with purple ribbons, only to sit

with misgivings and pairs of your
Argyle socks. Not plated on the bone
China like bagels and lox. Just tossed
together like yesterday’s slops.