The Wake

I am not dressed like a salad and I don’t prefer to be held inanimately. I wish I didn’t
have to consume so much cranberry product and more
importantly my bad circulation was not an excuse
for you to keep me warm. I think at one time
the moonlight meant danger, like trouble rising
and I can’t shake off this mist irony hanging over everything. I can’t shake it
like a woman should and there are many things that
I cannot explain, like the different models of bathtubs
but sometimes I scream underneath the water of myself and it’s not what’s on the surface
I have to tell myself, but the shape. And people around here eat hamburgers with forks
and I have yet to explain why the folds of your stomach reside unpleasantly in my mind
over dinner and time does nothing but
tell tricks about what I pretend to appreciate. And when the waitress comes
I’m reminded of my hypocrisy
through supposed hatred of conformity, and once I calm
down I realize I am hungry and I do feel things beside fear.