Mon Plaisir

I was coping not
in the best of ways. Turn-tide
days. Did I tell you about
this recurring nightmare?
How I'd be force-fed
a bowl of sugar. Each time
I woke my mouth cringed,
fringed with maddening sweetness,
but it was the grain that got me,
a cacophony of grain-

Train rides at five
forty, machine-sigh, fleet-
busy shudder. People
can be so horrible, my mother
said, or maybe it was
myself, transplanting
the voice of someone
else. We forget voices

first of all. I learnt this
from a documentary, a sad
man was listening to the last
voicemail- how harsh is
a beep, things can just
zip up, sonar finality---

maybe it was a sad man,
or a sad woman, or both things
or nothing. Drizzling doubt
like sugar. Come back.
Come here. Your bowl of cereal
is getting soggy. So lightly
we take a year
for a year.

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