by Kamilah Aisha Moon
Two dozen eggs rotting in the fridge;
few things are over easy, and often
can't be unscrambled. No day
or kiss undone. It is this now.
Darkened mush like kale that once
would have nourished,
given her what she needs.
Missing a young, pink safety,
teeth yield to lessening shores.
Lemongrass oil keeps her
from being breakfast for bugs sometimes.
She once loved how pesto salmon
and pasta with pine nuts made her mouth
swoon, left her sated but not weary.
Creamy hummus around the crisp snap
of carrots, and the naive belief as a child
that crunching them made her eyes pretty.
Later, she learned carrots aid sight
but she's seen enough now.
Outside, even the sun has its hands
around her neck and inside,
she's grown armor that only beer and grease
penetrates, thickened by “food” if abandoned
on a shelf, would outlive her
by decades. Tongue wedded to salt
and corn syrup, a stickiness
has settled over everything
through a small barred window
A fly drones through
stale, humid air; a woman
gives herself no choice
but to breathe it in. A wall full of holes
that someone else made.
Cobwebbed corners too high to clear.
A fan's gray fuzz
from endless churning
Last updated December 12, 2022