Bath
I like to restrict the package to the packaging. Stop asking about my middle name, it represents me like a hiccough. You ice the baggage and dip your passport in a eucalyptus-lemon bath. I thought you said “mordicant.”
You never interrupt me. I wear out your favorite movies. He’s got an angel face like a chopped leek slowly simmering with butter and sweet shallots. You never interrupt me. That means break between.
My mother doesn’t wear her glasses. She’s needed them since the seventies, but she’s a very pretty girl. Once I spilled a bottle of your contact solution and you had to wear your broken designer glasses until we could afford more. High holidays means a new suit for both of us. That means break between. Sun tea and indelicate surgery plastic.
Once my sister was an anemic girl. She was a blonde girl, and we were confused. Mother tugs my elbow about your blonde hair. I crack a mix CD and paste the pieces over a poem. Sugar daddy, sweet sugar daddy, without you the world does not spin.
