Bridget Talone

            Fastday. Me and my plastic hatchet. You and your surgical mask. The neighborhood with string was wrapped. Run over or run around. A pool of puke is not a prize drying. All the bees were stumbled—stuck inside of sticky cups. Day clouded by big dogs with dark eyes dripping looks at us. Mournful-hot looks, like Spanish women and children. These women would not say it to your face but they are angry about the ways you bullied me. I was thinking about our agreement. I fried it in butter and the words I was angry about pulled us apart. Needs must speak—but they way they bully me! Why do you continue to waste my time? I touch my lips to your heart-fingers, wet-fingers, fingers dipped in shadowliquor. When I pretend to be blind, when I tell you that yes, my mother dressed me, when I gigantize my other senses and I am pillow-under and so smothered—I do this in memory of the feeling that you stopped first.