print previewback Meg McKeon
I’ll Make Dinner Tonight
I got myself
tangled
in the longest
curtain.
Arms, wrists, ankles
twisted in burlap fabric
stained blue.
I let myself
hang limp
and snapped
at angles
akimbo.
Someone once told
me that friction
gives life
to hollow
spaces,
as a joke.
If I try to laugh
it seems I’m too
much flirting
with my potential
for unraveling
into the habitat
of spaces unkempt,
overgrown.
If it’s consistent,
the suspension
of pain,
does it disappear?
At least,
it’s the bones
that break in
their final
defense
of my chest.
Splintered, stale,
good for flavoring. 
I Didn’t Tell You I Wanted to Feel Your Chin at the Nape of My Neck
I’ll Make Dinner Tonight