I love you like raspberry thumb print cookies
and the pieces of my jawbone on my pillow in the morning.

Darling you called me shortbread
and you said we were egg yolks--
tossed in a bowl of flour to powder our necks
white. I said that I love you like 
thumb print cookies and I pressed in our 
cheek bones like panic buttons-- alarms--
my arms-- You said we're jam not jelly
full of seeds and all the reeds at the end of the 
raspberry bush rows-- where we ate
the berries from the tips of our fingers 
and something from there lingers
in the divots of our faces filled red--
red like blush and bone marrow-- I never
told you how I wake up with my jaw bone
like a boomerang-- my teeth dropping like
powered sugar-- in between my fingers-- on
the floor-- we closed oven doors to forget
what it felt like to fall apart as dough--
you called me shortbread because you know
how I crumble-- fixed my teeth with your 
thumb prints on my lips-- we slipped kisses
like raspberries or egg yolks between
each other in a bowl-- listen to me
when I explain my jawbones come back like
boomerangs-- my teeth are only sugar--
and we panicked like jam in the oven--
bubbled and broke like the browning 
of shortbread-- I said we should have used 
strawberries but you said that we have
always kissed like raspberries and that
it's okay to lose teeth if you pick
them up again off the pillow in the morning.
We were golden brown-- you and I-- 
we were oven fresh and powered--
we pushed into each other like panic buttons
and used each others thumbs to 
fill our bones with marrow-- with jam.