friday morning in march

hands soaked in the smell of a future high,
lips pulling every bit of moisture
from someone else’s green tea bag.

pluck the rib bones from kitchen garbage,
shards from the sink disposal – snap them,
suck the soft fat.

a bone breaks in the body and marrow slips,
a drop from a broken pipe, and finds
its home in the heart.

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(Day 5)

(Playing off of a stanza that I wrote on Day 2.)

the eastern hemlock is not poisonous.
honeyed spoon, hot water
swallow the steam.

it is identifiable by parallel stripes on needles’ underbelly.
strip them from the branch,
mash by molars.

the needles come in threes.
or fours.
they forget to come at all.

i do not check for the parallel stripes.
pockets full of pinecones,
mouth full of needles.

Tripped Up

Edges of his reason fragment:
eyes falling up, back, he burrows
between his own lungs, liquid
thrumming ribcage filling cavities, rising
like vomit in his throat
until it bursts behind his teeth –
sobs cracking like eggs on the boardwalk.
Too full to tell, the safety
of kaleidoscope vision rearranging
shards of cattails and sky into the curve
of his mother’s mouth.