self-portrait as crème brulée

every dinner

has a boundary,

and this one

 

is now. when

present wine

stains into future,

 

i call in dessert.

i am to be

spooned. i told you,

 

in the end, torture

would come

on the swift heels

 

of silver.

nothing and

everything feels

 

final, like

a charred forest.

and the green,

 

there—

pine or relish?

my face

 

is full-on

soot. i am

too rich.

 

i am

confusingly

popular. so simply

 

a thing

to be

cracked, plated.

 

thus, i was

pushed

too near the sun

 

because i wanted

to be stranded

in some heat.

 

i said

humidity

is my home, but

 

under

the flame is

where i am

 

calmed. Live

 and let fib.

 i do, i shirk

 

from duty—

look at me

i wander

 

countries,

streets,

crawl

 

along ridges.

what’s left of me,

i call

 

twilight,

as if intermediary

as if i had activity.

Carrie Chappell is originally from Birmingham, Alabama. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans’ Creative Writing Workshop. Some of her poetry has appeared in Juked, Harpur Palate, horse less press, The Volta, Cream City Review, Paris Lit Up, The Offending Adam, and Bateau Press. Her book reviews have appeared in The Collagist, DIAGRAM, Iowa Review, and Xavier Review. Currently, she serves as Poetry Editor for Sundog Lit and lives in Paris, France.

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