raisin

By Sarah Levin

That soft sunday morning

Heavy bursts of light 

Eat up the wood on the kitchen 

Table, where your raisin crumbles off 

Your toast as you sigh and rub 

The place between your eyebrows and 

Milk tastes sour after breaths 

Tease the air and I suck onto my 

Own front tooth to get the remaining 

Sugar before the sun shoots into the 

Air and the birds shout and I am 

Overwhelmed with the weight of it all