by Shaun R. Pankoski

You would think
they were gene splicing,
the way the two of them
huddled over the three inch square,
deciding exactly
how to slice it into twin rectangles.

Four deft hands
wrapped a clear sleeve
around each, nested them,
collared and tidy, like little birds
in a fluff of tissue,
flanked on each side

by the tiniest spoons,
suspended over a miniature ice pack,
(in case we were traveling)
accompanied by fragrant
hand towels upon which
to dab our fingers and lips.

I bowed to them
as they bowed to me—
she solemn, he grinning.
A smile as surprising and cheery
as the lemon yellow box
I carried out into the rain-spattered street.

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Shaun R. Pankoski (she/her) is a poet most recently from Volcano, Hawaii. A retired county worker and two-time breast cancer survivor, she has lived on both coasts as well as the Midwest as an artist’s model, modern dancer, massage therapist, and honorably discharged Air Force veteran. Her poems have appeared in ONE ART, Gargoyle, Sheila-na-Gig, Gyroscope, and Anacapa Review, among others.