What I Wrote Down While Showering

(May 2022 - February 2023)


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One boy eats
blue Takis on a bridge
hands coated in the powder


while his brother below
catches a blue crab
in a net bag and lifts it.


Light tunnels
between his teeth
to reach his tongue.


*


A mouse called “the cops”
Hahaha
Like, that’s the mouse’s name


*


Oh for g.d’s sake,
I just dropped a xanax down the drain


*


Sometimes,
You Go Quiet
In Canada


*


Come, Witness my Turmoil!

The cave of my mouth
filling with thick, orange syrup

Letting my legs
fall apart,
Falling asleep
In the bath


*


July


Without the ability to smell clementines, perfume, coffee beans, rubbing alcohol, coconut
shampoo, lavender conditioner, my own self shitting, my menstrual blood, pine candles, the
neck of my husband, July in New York AKA hot garbage


*


I am not a textbook
Overthinker


*


She’s the kind of girl
who’s been washed
on a marble block


*


I feel like this notebook
might not be waterproof?


*


Transubstantiation
in the age of pecans


*


You’ll Just Know


People tell me I’ll “just know” things
with no evidence I’m intuitive.
Like what food it was that poisoned me or
when a tire on my car goes flat or
if I become pregnant—
that instantly, I’ll feel it
in a drag to one side,
through the aura of a rotten chicken,
by a sense that I’m no longer alone—
the steering wheel will bend
towards the median,
my cupholder overflowing
with jellybeans,
and I’ll just know.