Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Toddler With A Spoon


In the sand, I lay here.

Ripe like a tomato,

The sun beating heat down my back.

My pulses harden 

Like a toddler with a spoon knocking on mama’s pans.

Fast, loud.

I notice a singular bulb of sweat 

Dripping from the back of my neck,

Making its way through a wisp of hairs,

Yet, still holding its shape. 

It traces it’s way across my shoulder,

Tap dancing down my collarbone.

The freckled path it moves along,

Is like a trail. 

Though I am not sure that the wind has anything to do with  directionality. 

But, unlike that bead,

The wind does not chart my path. 

It does not carry me softly to new heights. 

It does not dissolve me,

Like the drop of sweat that once clung tight to this body. 

Now, wiped away for new beads to form. 

I lay here still. 

With the sun. 

With the mindfulness to see.

To feel. 

Till my knees get weak,

And my body bleeds sweet. 

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