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I opened, felt immediately drugged.
My heart aches cans of PBR
coated in butter. Fry them up
and pop and pop. Kitchen
shrapnel night on the tiles
morning making angels in the grease
You said you loved me traced
your name in my makeup
There is your name where the bare skin
No fridge in the lease
The last tenants left their bags of ketchup
crusting and turning purple
The crisp small flaps of onionskin
spelling out put on your housedress
get something in avocado
something in sunburst We lean
heavily on the windowsill
only living boy in New York
We pull a chair up to the windowsill
I find something else metal for the magnet
Breadbox, the bread getting greener and softer
your face on the outside, your postcard
the tiny handwriting about a jackalope
the tiny handwriting about a geyser
one of those thirties ladies I dreamed my whole
house was clean I slide back down on the floor
Really I think he might be right
whoever said this was one whole half of the world
If you promise to fry up whatever I hold up
I will hold up the world, hand me the turquoise oven mitt
little tracks in the flour do I wake or sleep
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