[Fl]our hour

You were sprinkled across the tabletop
[Fl]our fingerprints, [fl]our breaths
Folding and twisting
In a boat of greasy metal,
Raisins and cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon...
"Sinner men!”
I spat into the estuary. Actually,
It was [fl]our.
Now, this hour I spend rescuing
[Fl]our baked raisins like rusty anchors
From the depths of my thighs. ❦

This article is part of Intimacy, The Ubyssey’s 2022 sex issue. You can read more here.

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First online Feb. 24, 2022, 9:05 p.m.

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