Two Hundred and Twenty-Seven.

15/8/14

Izzy circle

izzy

morning, for an undertaker:
half a grapefruit, with a sprinkle of sugar
one boiled egg
a small bowl of granola, toasted, with soy milk

no raspberries today.

black coffee, scalding
rise and walk to the sink,
drop a plate
stand and stare at the shattered floor
don a single yellow rubber glove, left hand
smoke
leaning out the window like a delinquent
like a single mother
smoke
don’t pick it up
take one more black coffee
have one more cigarette,
you deserve it.

the bodies can wait
they’re cold already.

*

Sarah circle

sarah

The sky falls out big and blue from the bottom of the plane and the crop-dusted clouds take their place in the air. The sun hangs on a tether from the left hand wing and follows us west with the morning. The babies are sleeping in the same soft sweet dream and their mothers are clutching the armrests. Their nails tear tiny holes in the fabric. They sweat through their Dove silk deodorant. The pilot is singing a song to himself with the words that he finds in the cockpit instructions. The stewards and stewardesses are waltzing with food carts to the drone of the engines humming away. We loll 30,000 feet up and cross all our fingers and pray really sneaky so nobody sees.

*

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