My fingers
Are always sticky
It seems
Picking apart
Food
To find the messy
But soft
Guts of it all
For you
who is not ready
For crunch
Or chewy
Or picking
Or whole
Sometimes
I cannot handle the stick
And slime
And smell
But
In my best moments
When I feel
Most like
The Mother
I see the metaphor
And the honor
How this
finger mess
Is so much like the
life mess
That I embrace for you
Until
You can eat it all yourself
And then I will miss the
Moment
You
But not the stickiness
