Somewhere, someone smells like vomit, and my toilet
won't flush. On NPR, they talked about how
we let our thoughts hold us in and control the way
we feel about ourselves, people. Mimicking neurons affect
the way we touch, or rather, who touches us.
I can't feel the hug your mother gives you,
or when you kiss your boyfriend.
I can't feel when you're mugged in Central Park,
or by the Ferris Wheel in Atlanta. Do I want to?
I want to taste the gnocchi with everyone else, sardined
between the back of a brown-black couch and
three wooden tables with place-mats. Mine, green like
pesto on someone's plate. The wind caught the wine
in my glass, the strand of hair on your face. Cold.
I want to feel the potato squish into the crevices
of my molars as pesto slides across my tongue.
Can you imagine gagging on the fork? The prongs
holding bile, as best they can. It's like watching death.
No comments:
Post a Comment