Heady musk, pillows and blankets, consuming
this bed; our growing distance, spreading out
through the kitchen walls we painted ’70s green.
A green skin, now curling up at the corners, rotting.
Were you scared? Because I made too much—
and the pasta boiled over, whispers of salty steam
still uplifting under the uncleaned oven hood.
Or was it the rough rollers and closet bones?
Could it be… the poisoning? Or our flights to ER?
Or the oral disconnections?
Or your follies with the students in your care?
All the same now, numbly blurred into forgettable
unforgiven fragments I lodge in the chinked walls
of my mind’s basement museum.
K. Shawn Edgar | Nightmare Herdsman | Thin Mint