memories are toys, paper clips, the lost ends of studs.
rolled up colorful like a huge katamari, my treat,
ends up tucked around edges in, in skin
taut and tight over all altogether,
folding and folding until it is dark and
dense like the center of an eye
together in a thin mint tin.
in a way i want it be okay to say the word motherfucker, but
once it is okay, i won’t want to say the word motherfucker.
i talk to plants.
sometimes i forget the curtain is up because the windows are so dark the night becomes a solid wall. i get closer to the window to close it, then without thinking, i’m right up against the night in my nightie pulling down the screen.
my hips are widening quite nicely due to the potato gnocchi served downstairs tonight. and the rice previous to that. and before that the pumpkin pie, the midnight snacks, the saltine crackers and the 9-dessert sampler plate.
i dislike using an oxford comma, and i only recently know what an oxford comma was when i googled it.
