noon on sunday

bugs swarm a black cloud around the cake

but i’ve only just made it this morning. do you

remember that poem by e e cummings?

nobody, not even the rain,

has such small hands

i feel it in the cockroach skitter ‘cross the kitchen tile

feel it in the hover of mayflies out the summer window.

i thought i might’ve hated you

but now i think it’s something worse

i die just a little

each time i submit to you

i hope that your friends like me and

i hope that you’ll never invite me over for dinner at your parent’s place

yellow-light, electric din and

the toilet seat cracked down the center. i stare in the mirror

i’m not sure which excuse they’d prefer

by noon i’ve eaten

the dining table, a lambs heart, six

kitchen knives and a few wandering souls. a tumor

in my throat, your leather jacket on the floor,

balled up pantyhose and

by seven i’ll be sickly

green-skinned and

angry with my mother

the sun treads its sleepy circles

the moon beds beneath my eyes

always. i wish my life was all ribbons for limbs and

flies on coffee cake. i want for something else, too

but i can’t say it out loud