IN THE KITCHEN
I keep my grocery lists and advice in the same drawer.
I was out of sorts looking for keep your chin up in the bakery.
I have a theory that enough yeast will rise me.
I bought a cookbook and am learning about moderation.
I’d like to spice up my life but cayenne burns
my black dress. I was going to wipe down the fridge,
along with all the acts I swear I’ve been meaning
to clean up: late night take-out, greasing sweatpants
with gravy, because nothing says fuck it like a bucket
of chicken. Can you eat your feelings?
I chewed confused
and the result was a belly-ache.
Or maybe a headache.
I bought an apron and it’s not helping.
The smoke alarm is broken. My neighbour’s apartment
smells delicious and mine like burnt toast.
Is that loneliness? I understand that life isn’t fair
but toast always lands butter side down
and I do not appreciate the metaphor.
Crumbs are everywhere? I am trying.
I can see now that two litres of milk was an ambition
I couldn’t swallow. I am too old to enter science fairs
but I am convinced I have a blue ribbon blossoming
behind boxed pizza. There is a whole regiment
of bad apples in the crisper. Don’t even get me started
on those rotten eggs.
A LITTLE BUG TOLD ME
I wriggle above a box spring
with coils like ringworm. The bedbugs
don’t like to cuddle and I am spooning
an incessant itch. My foot is stepping
down when I see a centipede—with so many
legs how can you not run away?
An exoskeleton hums in bone shatter.
The spider in the windowsill is dead
and the funeral ill-attended. Gertrude,
I’d like to say your life was sweet.
An arachnid is an arachnid is an arachnid.
A ladybug circles the shower drain, her back
rotten tomato red, a few dark dots.
Can you drown in loneliness? I ask myself
and laugh as I fill the bathtub.
Hannah Green lives and writes in a small apartment with a large cat. She is currently apprenticing under Karen Press in the Sheldon Oberman Mentorship program. Her work has appeared in Juice, and is forthcoming in filling Station and Poetry Lives Here.