When, in the franchise,

Edward becomes wraith-like

you are inconsolable.

I make you school sandwiches

with blood-red sauce and polony.

With the sauce I draw a love heart

and embellish its middle with a cursive ‘E’.

There, I say, for now he is safe in your sandwich.

Ok, it’s not a cloven-pine or an attic

or any other high-styling bolt-hole

but it is portable, economical,

disposable –oh and also something else–

it feeds you.

You are convinced,

or at least put on a show

of being convinced,

this spell will hold

in soft white halves

for now. And later

I picture you sinking

your nine-year old incisors

into the sticky sweet

legend of love, ingesting its messed up

promise, leaving its tired wrappings

in the bottom of your bag.