The Sugar Tong Collector
There was something about them
picking up clustered sweetness
then set free in the perfervid
liquid. Many times I watched
him behind net curtains, torn
by my longing, wild fingers.
They could have been Georgian
or once stroked by Her Majesty’s
painted fingernails; silver plated,
imbedded in skin and shiny as
mirrors. Snaked writhed
like long hair in water meeting
a diamond ball at its peak. Priceless
it was, the catastrophic way diamonds
crumbled when compressed; granulated, once
cast from a mould. “Elizabeth I,” he sighed.
Even an oval-shaped sun, once cast from a tong
could not stun me. I cried for attention, punching
the sprinkled floorboards. His words took
hold like water, soothed the burning coal,
left me fumbling for my own.
Please look out for the next update informing you of the April's competition.