Ahem.
(The Other Kind of) Morning Sickness
Watching my fingers cut a bagel in half
As if they are not mine
As if someone else is doing the work
Which would explain
Why I can’t control the knife
As it nears my hand slowly
And with a brief jab
Or a slice, rather
Tears at my skin
Almost imperceptibly-
Except for that stream of blood flowing onto the countertop
And as my other hand tries to rinse this away
At least dilute it
So it’s not quite as striking a shade of red when my roommates awake
And the good hand dabs at the injured party
A sudden lurch deeper inside my body ends it diligence
And my legs carry me to that famed Porcelain God
My brain searches for a reason
It feels the need to confess, the yogurt
(last night)
Did seem a bit old
But did it have to end like this?
Elbows atop the seat
The uncut hand supporting my head
A rumbling makes its way up from the depths of my soul
And my stomach reacts to a poor choice of nutrients
(Not really nutrients then, eh?)
My stomach, legs, hands
Go through the motions
Undoing the damage I have inflicted on them
With time to spare to get to class
And all I can think
As I peer into the bowl is
This Toilet
Really
Needs
Cleaning
-Ophira (circa 2005)
Now tell me: Do you use food poisoning as material? Because this writer thinks you could.
You’re welcome.
Next up: A sonnet about the cockroach I bravely caught in a toilet paper roll before realizing they open on both sides. From the collection, Living Alone for the First Time.
This Glass Has Water 