This is a plum. A what? A plum.
You go out walking at night without
Your coat. This is your street, you
Live on a rough draft. Revisions
Are scratched in the bark of your
Trunk. On your tongue, a picked
Scab weeping with the unraveling
Of close-knit ties. Acrid, punishing,
Too drunk, you take Polaroids of
Relatives in the bath, force your gullet
To heed whim, vomit in the kitchen sink.
You call your red cardstock notebook
The cahier des secrets. You do complicated
Equations in the front, back pages list
Frozen suppers to try, heritages to try on.