Either you've died, or you arrive beside me at a funeral patchily reaching out from your zero gravity chair to grab the relative achievement of my stomach. There is no cute life in me but I have eaten a great meal alone successfully, greater than I have ever kept down before, full of iron and clotted cream. I cannot feel everything about you anymore the way I used to— the stomach overfills itself so fast it eats the hunger and the mouth. I grow enamored of you as an egg you shake in my direction then love you evenly, without belief. Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Metzger. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment