Letter of Instructions to My Lover
So you want to remember how I taste? Try licking the salt off of your trembling fingers. If that doesn’t work, rub lavender on the inside of your elbow and wait one day, until the next morning when you’ve been dreaming of my skin all night, and then kiss your sensitive wrist softly between sips of your coffee. It won’t be just right, it’ll never be just right, but try once more. On your way home from work, after some girl with long hair has reminded you of me, stop for a peach, or a pear, or a plum, making sure it’s ripe, not quite as soft as my breast in your hand, not nearly as hard as the heel of my foot in your lap. Take it home. Strip completely. Eat it without a napkin. When you’ve eaten all the way to the pit or the core close your eyes, and starting with your fingers, suck up the sticky juice, letting it pull your tongue just a little. Now hold your breath as long as you can. This will only work in the summer, somewhere humid. Your face will be red in holding, and all at once you will breathe in hot wet air, and it may almost taste like my breath in your face.
Caitlin Creson is an MFA candidate at Georgia State University and received her BA in English from Augusta University. She has been published by Sand Hills Literary Magazine and has presented poetry and theory all over the United States. Her work focuses on the depiction of processes; she likes to explore the image of something or someone becoming, turning, evaporating, and what all that entails.