—TO BE COMPLETELY HONEST, IT FEELS LIKE YOU’RE STILL IN THE ROOM

Breakfast in Bed

My love is trying to mug my larynx, puree my breath with his Shaman’s fork and a bloody rabbit’s foot dangling from his puffed chest.  But I remind myself:  this is merely breakfast in bed.  Or a holiday.  An exclusive repast.  My love kills a crepe in slow-motion.  My love molests each sprig of parsley.  My love asks, “Is this kiss too caloric?” while pressing a nail gun to my throat.  And I can’t answer, can’t breathe, can’t be his girl serving black madness or the slaughter of our scalded sustenance.  We used to twirl in sugar-smelling hailstorms.  We used to fold clouds like napkins, save them in our breast pockets, but now the sky has run out of coolant and there is no space for anything but the wide-open furnace.  It’s Friday, or Mother’s Day, or our Anniversary.  Or maybe it’s the color beige.  The color bewildered.  Who knows?  So I remind myself again that this curdled intimacy is our breakfast in bed.  Even though my love has eaten all the toast.  Even though there are dry orange rinds in my eyes.  Even though my love has marmalade on the end of his knife, stuck here in the hollow pouch between my ribs.