|
Suzanne Grazyna
Why I hate shrimp
Choose your own switch.
That's what the
Gorgon said.
And I did.
The next morning
the shrimp
usurped my oatmeal.
I went hungry again.
It's not like I didn't try.
Try to chew.
Swallow.
Not breathe.
Not cry.
Choose your own switch.
Sting, the switch said.
Sting.
Trickle of red trails.
Down my two legs.
Shrimp have more than two.
Cold shrimp from the
night before is not
an appropriate breakfast
for a nine year old
girl with bandaged
rear thighs from the
night before.
Choose your own switch.
No, bring me my oatmeal,
bitch.
Shine free
Don't take it out at the table.
Make your excuses, head to the powder room.
Compact out.
Pat, don't rub, pat pat pat the translucent.
For a flawless finish.
You aren't supposed to outshine the others.
Leave no evidence behind.
With one graceful flick of your (dainty) wrist,
napkin off lap.
Wipe, careful now, wipe wipe wipe prints away.
The fluff brush powder dust will search.
They can't know it was you.
Artifact
It's nothing really.
I'm just in love
with my own blood.
Rise up to greet me
at my beck and call.
Drops of sweet and whore
gore fall
inside
a fine
purple
jade flask.
Lemonade veins soothe
the flesh; refresh the shrill
flute smoothly tucked in wire
cages, iron lungs, trilling rages.
Stitchery seals the tomb.
|