Eat. I said. 

It was important. 

​

Love rolls off the tongue 

like butter off a knife; and I 

am about to leave you. 

​

Buoyant little boats: 

I pick out chicken soup 

and rub my heels off with salt. 

​

Freshness 

loitering at the edges of the mirror— 

steam and sweat and sweetness all 

mingled into one. 

Remember being young? 

​

The very worst of me is fuschia. 

Listening to the birds, choking 

on crackers and clean air. 

​

The suds of syllables stick to my teeth— 

we must always take the scenic route. 

​

Your arms are my arms: 

nonsense songs and Ayn Rand. 

All these liberations! 

​

The Atheists pray for matches in the dark 

and thank your mother’s goodness: 

no one saves us. 

​

I picked out chicken soup. 

I wanted my words back— 

​

Hold on. The heart says. 

The heart says, 

​

Hold on.