by Amanda Wall
The milk you gave me was skim. I wanted two percent, I would’ve even taken one.
But skim milk makes the grass bend down and it never lets the leaves fall.
It puts me in a congested alley.
But two percent you see,
it puts me in a small cabin on an orchard where apples are so bountiful, I can stand on my toes and reach them through our kitchen window.
Two percent is sweet wine and kisses in the garden, public for all to see, but private because it’s just you and me.
Two percent is you and me together, nothing separating us, nothing stopping me from stretching me to you, nothing stopping the connection.
Two percent is leaves falling on us at our wedding, two percent is our bed of leaves that night. Two percent is my gift to you.
But all I see right now is skim.