🌙🥐🌙
***
Crescent-shaped bread
Can’t be cut open,
Made into a sandwich,
Be spread on,
Nor eaten at any other time
But morning,
When still it’s warm
And dangerously buttery,
When still you are
Half-moon-walking
On tiptoes of your tongue,
At supersonic love or lava.
My first words
Spoken from its crescent surface
Would be ‘Bonjour’,
‘Good morning’,’ Bari Luis!’,
или по–русски – ’Утро доброе’.
My first kiss would be left
Right on the tablecloth,
In light rich gold –
A stain under my cup of coffee,
Indelible, soft, permanent.