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  • Writer's pictureRobyn Norrah

Poetry | Slow Burn

Updated: Nov 21, 2022

Art by Adam Lee

I like a slow burn.

Like the way butter melts

on day-old pancakes

cluttered in the sink.

Too much batter,

fried and flipped,

pages ripped,

buried in cliffs,

landfilled up

with maple syrup

and lining the bellies

of the home-grown

beasts at some IHOP

in downtown Chicago,

circa the late 1800s.

Hurling up words

as swords

for anarchy,

for revolution.

Such socialists fork down thoughts

blistering in ought, ought, ought to,

can do–

won't follow through.

I like a slow burn.

Like the evolution of America,

like the re-evolution of Earth

It should taste like dirt.

She feels her ink wells drying up,

aquaphor's collecting dust

from canyons miles away.

Make another grand one, I say.

Let her tooth decay.

I like a slow burn.

A churn.

What makes liquid freeze

is not motion,

is not decision,

it's allowing nature to do as she please.

I think we ought to let this burn slow.

Thistles rise from the root rot,

pluck a cherry and put it on top.

Let whip cream fold under

like every pretty lady

with her hands in her lap.

Let it lap.

Let it spin.

Let the ease of time win.

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