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June 14, 2010
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I watch a small little droplet of water run down a window in my bedroom
behind my lip curtains and yes, even the glass
I’m not even sure how things could morph into such ridiculous splendor
and in the sound of a whip breaching the sound barrier
I somehow hear the peeling of an orange
the bittersweet and juicy fractions plummeting into a glass bowl

My hands are stained from the ink in the cornstarch
I added two drops of cake dye that my mom said not to touch
wrapped in foil were cookie cutters
shapes of ghosts and cats and boys and girls
I slammed the shiny and noisy situation to the floor
and started to cut at the deep blue on the counter

On a stool sat my match staring at a menu
a furrowed brow and concentrated pupils meant no dinner tonight
on the bridge of his nose was a pair of red-rimmed glasses
of which I knew every scratch, indent and bite mark from Scott The Dog

For whose team am I playing here, and is the choice really mine?
I have memorized the cracks and veins on my hand
some running through my skin like river others intertwining
under the sting of warming microwaves.

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