Tangled,
Wiry sleep-thoughts
Still float
In the cloud above my head.
A headache,
Born of the annoying red flowers.
A self-diagnosis of pure envy;
I hate all that is beauty today.

The salmon’s bones,
Fragile,
But not as delicate as myself.
The salmon still swims upstream.
I melt between the wooden dowels
On the back of my chair,
In the dining room,
Where I eat my salmon and greens.
I took out her bones,
So now she feels like me.