Dear Little Sandwich
In order to feed this story,
once upon a time I took to skipping my way
through too many assurance sandwiches,
random fillings layered with overmuch.
Everyone is usually more pleasing
in the kitchen so eventually he and I became
conspirators in alchemy converting
flirtation into slices & slabs.
When you, baby sandwich, grew your teeth
in the cupboard, your parents got in the habit
of sucking on dormant house keys
or pacifiers soaked in melodrama –
sardines, gherkins, maraschino cherries.
Hope was the aroma of onions frying.
Then mistresses on mattresses.
Keys rusting in a jar.
Crumbs on chipped plates & globs
of bargain white bread stuck
on the roof of his gummy mouth.
Rikki Santer's poetry has appeared in various publications including Ms. Magazine, Poetry East, Slab, [PANK], Crab Orchard Review, RHINO, Grimm, Hotel Amerika and The Main Street Rag. She has received five Pushcart and three Ohioana book award nominations, as well as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her eighth collection, Drop Jaw, was published this spring by NightBallet Press.