How to Choke Myself in the Ugly Kitchen

When I stumbled on the kitchen floor,

I actually believed in a counterclockwise wonderland—

colorful macaroons and a mouthful of sherbet. Dried

skin flaked in my long hair. It covered

my lineless back. I saw some moles.

Then he called me, Sweetie—

without kissing my forehead.

Once he drilled a hole and hung a phone from the 1970s,

and painted the wall in a puke yellow.

I shoveled a spoonful of instant coffee into my mouth.

There is

an extra season of endless fields . . .

The postcard fell from the refrigerator.

Sweetie, he called me from behind a leather couch.

The TV remote is lonely on the carpet.

I wiped my hands with a paper towel and said, I am here.