All day I write, edit. Write
emails. Edit. Write
some more. Edit. I
quit to make tea.
The cupboard is empty.
Out of tea. Too cold
to walk to the store
for more. I drink coffee.
Grind more beans. I drink
more coffee. Later
I won’t sleep, so I bathe.
I read, finish a book
of fiction. Disgusted, throw
it across the small room.
Read some more
poetry, then an essay.
I bathe again. Later still,
cut my finger on a tin
of oysters. I’m alone.
It bleeds onto the keyboard.
I will bleed all night, red
seeping into my panicked dreams.
In these, I give birth to a stranger.
She will arrive before midnight
but after breakfast. I don’t
usually eat, except
when I’m hungry.
She sells my house
to pay her gambling debts.
Then the baby. I wake
the next morning in red shoes.
Turn the computer on,
watch the screen. Write
an email. Edit a poem.
All of this, just a line
I feed myself.