CLARICE LIMA
Let us live in a 1989 Lenox Spice Village
Because you wouldn’t approve of the House I grew up in
And I am willing to move To a place you understand
Give you the Picked fence and the Pruned garden Your mother birthed you in
Let us get settled in a wooden kitchen shelf That carries not a trace
Of the forest it once was Inside porcelain houses That were never
Tainted by something that not lipstick pink You will arrange the furniture
While I bake cakes for the neighbors The Mustard Family is bitter but kind
The Ginger Couple are newlyweds who are trying very hard to elude their spice
Don’t worry I won’t give in to The Saffron’s luring intent To burn my tongue
Perhaps just once I’m sorry I know The Cinnamon House is only good at a distance
And our Sugar Mansion does not blend in with half the street But honey we were late
Let us hope our Love is enough to keep The roof from melting at the smell of Garlic
The curtains from opening disdainful as Paprika approaches The walls from
Dismantling at the surge of a Pepper Party My apple pie don’t turn salty
Let us drown in the icing of our bed Until I am the very best thing next to white
And you forget I was born out of Bay Leaves not Rosemary Bushes Until you stay
For my taste not my roots You know I could spend my life homesick To feed you
Well and Tasteless yet Darling I know how to cook a meal You would never
Set on your table How to blend spices that would make you spit fire
How to blow your guts and This entire glace dream By knifing you heart shaped
In a pot with all the Goods you claim are no edible for me Even though they were
The ones to nourish me all those years You understand this is unknown to me
The smooth unchipped surface of this house The play pretend where I have never
Sat in a table set for seventy Misty in scents you don’t take for childhood
The growling of my stomach after kissing your Wheat Dairy Greasy Lips
I have never felt this hungry But then again The houses are on perfectly lined spots
And the pastel of our room Matches the blush of your skin when You leave it peeled
And I haven’t cried onions for so long Mainly because you don’t approve of Tears So
Let me grind teeth for another day As I forget yet another spot of taste
In the Wild of my Tongue
Clarice Lima is a queer bilingual writer and literature undergraduate from Brazil. With a lifelong love for stories and all things warm, they mostly want to be kind. Her words can be found published or forthcoming in small leaf press, The Augment Review, antinarrative zine and elsewhere. Find them on Twitter @candiedcowboy.