Sometimes I eat flaming hot cheetos
just because I can. Then I make love
to her shadow instead of fondling her,
and I hold her shadow’s hand upon the wall.
I owe, I owe
much but I will not forget what’s mine
In the fridge, in my dumb, costly chest.
A spider pushes a leaf out of her web
repairing and damaging simultaneously.
It really is all that she has.
At the performance
I touched the still body of a human being.
do not touch the artworks
even if they’re alive?
When my tooth was knocked out I started
simple and weird as that.
Sitting on Sauvie’s beach alone, your
old Hanes t-shirt over my hair—
my black head gets so hot—
I push little bugs into
the sand. Not to hurt them but
to see ‘em struggle a bit, easy.
I was put here to love others no
question but I’m remembering
how I used to feed my dog
frozen berries by slipping them
into her water bowl, she
loved strawberries but still
broke my heart, you know?
I’m looking past where the water
meets the sky I mean I’m trying
to name the bigger light.
I try coconut oil pulling
and ralph straight away into the sink.
Good things do not become me.
I walk immediately to the cafe
and order a coffee
I ask to be dead a little faster.
Phone rings and as usual
I refuse to heed the call.
There’s a little warm sun coming
through the dankly fug of early spring
this year could truly ruin me
Patricia No is a writer, editor, and publisher in Portland, Oregon. She is the co-founder of Publication Studio and is an editor at Weekday, an annual literary magazine.