Creatures of Comfort

The barista’s expression remained flat,

“Have a wonderful morning” made no crack.

An other’s nonchalance can feel quite rough.

The latte, however, is warm and smooth,

even with chai spice it tastes creamy soft,

my lips linger over the cup’s rimmed edge.

* * * * * * *

An hour ago I sat perched on the edge

Of my bed, tugging the comforter flat,

smoothing creases and admiring the soft

fabric with my fingers. Light from a crack

between the curtains warmed a patch of smooth

silk, leaving coziness was very rough.

* * * * * * *

And yesterday, Caroline took my rough

and chipped nails in her hands, filing edges

until they were nicely rounded and smooth,

applying coats of color, pools of flat

shining maroon, pristine until they crack

again, but for now sleek and strong, yet soft

* * * * * * *

when brushed against my cheek. We do love soft

things, don’t we? Always sanding away rough,

dulling the sharp, and filling in the cracks,

avoiding abrasive, and all edges

softened, nothing uneven, give us flat

surfaces, no wrinkles, please, only smooth.

* * * * * * *

Like last night when I was angry, but smoothed

my words so you would hear them, my voice soft

and measured, “Give it to me straight,” but flat

is what you’re after, straight can be too rough

and pointed, so I tried to keep the edge

out of my tone, but under strain I cracked.

* * * * * * *

I’m not perfectly polished, I have cracks,

jagged pieces that are too sharp to smooth

over, spaces I don’t fit, and edges

that can’t be blurred. And the places I’m soft

can produce fire when they’re handled too rough.

I’m not a hollow mask, empty or flat.

* * * * * * *

And you, you’re not flat. We have matching cracks.

We’re a little rough, but your kiss is smooth,

some words hard, some soft, here on comfort’s edge.