i thump a spoon
against my tongue.
the same thing every day
i eat the same thing every day because
banana & peach & measuring cup. i crawl
into a bowl. i crawl out.
i scrape a fork across the sidewalk. i drag my nails through
a patch of dirt & stone. i eat the same
thing everyday because of ribs & the centipedes they suggest.
i eat the same thing everyday because of something
my parents did that i can’t remember. i buy shovels to try
& remember. i go to a supermarket full of orchids to try
& pick something new to eat & i meet all the more-beautiful people who eat
only flowers. they put samples in their mouths
& wait for the petals to dissolve. there are white-pink orchids
& purple-yellow orchids & orchids made of glass. people carefully sliding
each face into their mouths. i eat
the same thing every day because the supermarket tells me to. i eat the same
thing every day because i have hands
& i can’t imagine living like these people who eat flower after flower.
i stay at the store for hours not to browse
but to watch people eat. they seem like they have never used utensils—
that maybe someone has always held a flower & told them to open wide.
i tell myself to open wider & i think of the way snakes unhinge
their jaws. i want to unhinge my jaw & eat everyday—the whole fucking day.
no minutes left ticking in the dirt just a gaping hole where the day
was supposed to be. they offer me flowers to try
& i refuse but they insist. they say the flowers will
make me feel better—that i would be less morose if i ate more flowers.
i eat the same thing every day because
the sun is loud & as indecisive as me. i accept a flower
& stuff it into my pocket. i set the flower on my kitchen table
& cry at the flower who doesn’t know
how to cry back. i tell the flower i eat
the same thing every day because i’m scared.
i tell the flower i eat the same thing
everyday because rain is turning
into seed. the supermarket snores
loudly so i open my window & tell it
to please please stop
that i am trying to get
some rest so i can wake up
& eat tomorrow.
Robin Gow is the author of the chapbook HONEYSUCKLE by Finishing Line Press. His poetry has recently been published in POETRY, New Delta Review, and Roanoke Review. He is a graduate student and professor at Adelphi University pursing an MFA in Creative Writing. He is the Editor at Large for Village of Crickets and Social Media Coordinator for Oyster River Pages. His first full-length poetry collection is forth-coming with Tolsun Books.
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