Last Meal
Step by step was how easy it was to forget you
(or that was what I made myself think) when I
Swallowed my own saliva instead of an apple.
The words came easily to me like the sunrises
I remember never watching with you around–
No. The low-hanging notes fell like fruit on my
Perplexed abdomen, my eyes begin to trace
All the bruises my words have suffered, I said–
No. Step by step the words began to fall not
Because I lost them, no longer because I refused
To say them, but because I was too exhausted
To say anything. I let sentences slide across the room
Whenever my mother asked a question, thinking that
Maybe she would let slide what was actually wrong
With me too. It was a recovery of sorts a finding of
The self among the lost sea-greenness ocean of health:
I imagined my vomit would look something like that.
Sick with the last meal of love I let my body stomach.
The Kindling 