Before Serving, Sprinkle with Cinnamon

When the milk comes to a boil
I watch the mismatched rain throw itself
against our teeth.
Dinner is cluttered elbows and rice
clinging lovesick to spoons.

We dream in three languages, thimbles
and pumpkin seeds
under our pillows, so many maps
creased into birds. One museum at a time
we spend ourselves on the city
as if the curated hunger of others will make us feel more
at home. Lavender,
hennaed wrists, why are we here
is a question we don’t ask ourselves
every night.

The window is freckled
with blue Post-it snowflakes. Simmer
until tender, the brown sugar,
whisk in the egg.
My mother made it with lemon zest
but that was timezones ago and the phone
smells like vanilla. We don’t wait for it
to cool, we eat the whole pot
like there is a bottom to homesickness.

***

Adriana Cloud is a native of Bulgaria who currently lives in Boston, Massachusetts. She has read Harry Potter in three languages. Her poems have appeared in the New Orleans Review, A Bad Penny Review, The Nervous Breakdown, and others. You can find her on Twitter as @adicloud.

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