print previewback VANESSA COUTO JOHNSON
c(on)ta(in)er
A cricket holds on to the netted top of a terrarium. The heat lamp, the light lamp, the third wish that five insects will be eaten by the kept reptile.
You eat clam chowder only because you cannot tell what the creatures look like.
Your lagoon is served. Ask me again if I like seafood, if I am willing to watch them surface.
I have a procedure for salmon, experimenting on myself with a frozen piece expired two months. Secrets. Salt, an oven, and thyme. Passes.
I tell you again you are my favorite mammal. A normal American buying milk.
I tell you I voluntarily wore bibs until I was four. Hard plastic ones, one pink and another blue. Latch around the neck. Large lip jutting out that I would not fill.
My throat became too big for them. Your gecko will not eat crickets that are too small. And if something is too much. We can always get a box. 
c(on)ta(in)er
o(vers)ight