i guess i’ll never finish them all. i feel like this is two poems in one, and they’re both shitty. cool.
It’s the smallest
most isolated
of incidents.
no gravity, all brevity.
no marilyns or madonnas,
reagans or roosevelts.
your relatives (ironically) given to sesquipedality -
only remembrance by repetition -
but they’ve paid for the fat on your bones while still more on the plate stares up at you, and pretty soon (before you know it) it’s walked itself right up and through your molars,
little masses of gelatin and mash pooling around in there.
then you’re lying on their kitchen floor
again
cold tile
again
with a sharp
spoon
to your throat.
too full to know the difference.
trying to forget the fillers,
the fillings.
—————-
a.n.
pretend this is like a person with centripetal obesity.
