Hand Grenades and Rice
©Scott Schumaker

I come to drop a hand grenade into your high-walled baby crib.
I am the lotus flower yearning to blossom in your deep and cold crevasses.
I am the extra strength, doubly-sudsy shampoo you've been afraid to use for fear I will
            wash all your roots down the drain.

I am your royal princess that seeks to escape in the back of a milk truck.
I am the woman of your being that you've kept long hidden come to pounce and gently sink
            myself into you.
 
Do not run scared.
Heed my voice.
And know this journey will not always be instant rice
– rarely, in fact.
Instead, it will be cooking risotto laced with saffron
arduous and slow
each hard grain seeming to take an eternity to soften
but in the end
fragrant and crying to be savored.
 
 
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