There is a wound and when no one is looking
I lick it. Salt can be metaphor.
I will make your steak taste better?
i.e. I am seasoned flesh.
Elements have been left burning. I can smell
the smoke and I fear for the cat. Pretty pretty whiskers.
This is a lesion (the word serrated knocks my knees)
or a sore I won’t name because I like to think
it won’t stay around for long, though I’m considering
Lucy, Jen, or Joy. I have inquired about vaccinations
and studied the cold anatomy of the needle. I have driven
two miles past the sort of place people go to die. Results?
I am not who I thought I was. There is new evidence:
My little black dress is hung in the back
of the closet with nights I will not speak of.
I would like to say I burned the sheets
but I threw them in the dumpster.
There is a knife in my kitchen and it saws
through Wonder Bread quite marvelously
(I am afraid I will cut off all my hair).
I am searching for peers to review my findings.
A pot is boiling over, I am muscled from constant
stirring. I can’t sweep anything else beneath the rug, the fridge
is full of rot, and where am I supposed to keep my secrets?