My head aches like torrential, relentless rain,
pounding on the rooftops and sending birds
flying away, far away, a little earlier than
what I learned in 2nd grade when I drew three birds
on momma bird's back: I was creative then,
but I can't create a sound now--
the sound of graceful acceptance of a belly,
still a belly, that feels like a graveyard
when I touch defiant black hairs standing straight
against smooth fawny skin; I feel the hollowness within.
Ali Baba would find refuge here, but thieves stole my treasure.
Those in white coats and button downs and sharp shiny square shoes
stroll past my disheveled gym hair, lint covered yoga pants,
uneven pale fingernails: I'm a recovering anemic.
A small frightened girl with cat moon eyes stares around her
and clutches her hand closer to her abdomen for an embrace,
an act of second nature, not forgotten yet.
Remember when they took the spoon and scooped out ice cream,
hungrily, viciously, mouthful overtaking mouthful
until nothingness remained:
an insatiable appetite for something sweet.
Somewhere in some corner a spider releases eggs and dies.
