lovecerealwarpoemmargaretgrabarsage

We only see each other strangely now, on sidewalks and in other transits overgrown with kitchenware and about-faces.

I am old. I am up to my ears in cravings and decisions, ruins and revisions. In the pantry, third shelf up, behind the cereal, that’s where I’d like to be buried.

I am still in love. I am in it for the money.

We could never hide from one another, though you once convinced me you were gone for good. I found you lurking, spoiled, behind the fridge.

I learned in passing, young, that I was cruel. I don’t know how I grew from there, but tell me, Please, how cruel I was to you—I’ve lost my sense of things.

I am old. I am down to my ruin in love (stale sand, warm bottle). I am infested with air- and cornstarch-memories that drag their clattering skins across my frontier checkpoints (blinding) periodically. Tell me, Please– How can I be knowing nothing of how to move?