Useless to scream, shut the fuck up!
so I’ve learned to disregard dogs next door
barking from midnight till eleven
but, the ice maker dropping shards into the basket
startles me wide awake. This
is what happens when I’m not in love.
What I feel for him is something
unfinished, like the chapter
in my unwritten novel where the detective
dies in the end,
done in by the murderer.
(That’s how it works in real life.)
I wish I could talk this over
with my mother.
see her face when I tell her babies
in America don’t have enough formula to drink.
I would like to discuss my identification
with the brown-and-white cow
leaning over a fence
on the cover of my milk carton,
a meadow that Darigold doubtless
wants me to think
is a realistic dairy farm.
(Here, says the glass of ice.
Pour cream and kahlua. Stir.)
Does light fall from our eyes when we’re
not in love? Can I force myself to feel passion for someone.
Hear music in cacophony.
See someone who’s no longer here.
