You think you’ve got it all stitched together
until the red threads unravel in your wrists.
You tear out another tiny black x;
another crewel stitch gets snipped
by shiny little sewing scissors, but
your pincushion can’t handle any more pricks.
It’s getting lumpy.
You whisk the egg whites so vigorously,
but won’t let the meringue melt on your tongue.
You serve the pie; extra-carefully spread
a celery stick with peanut butter for yourself
while zooming in on the word svelte svelte svelte
while the latticework crumbles between their teeth
while they moan around a mouthful of your filling…
svelte your floppy wrists svelte your sloppy wrists
did you let a svelte did you let a little yellow creep
into the svelte white did you let it infiltrate the svelte
golden brown you slut? You bite down
and it snaps like hamster bones, crudités, foie gras,
sanitized baby shit and your wrists are flailing around in it
as if you’re someone’s dumpy marionette. Someone’s misshapen stray
pins & needles puncture all the yolks you’ve been preserving
in protective sacs and there’s so much unruly blood,
you tell yourself it’s all just Fancy Ketchup, but
your wrists are catching on the serrated edges
of the small plastic packets and you can’t contain it.
You can’t tell yourself where the sugared red spill ends
and you begin to stitch to stir to bake the crust.
