It doesn’t matter how far
I move
the cat food from it’s sacred spot,
the lines of movement
keep on.
Tiny black patterns,
smells, trails
to honey, sinkwater, sweet liquors.
Why can’t we strike a bargain?
I would give a pint
of blood a week to the bitchy
mosquitoes in the park
if I could just exist
without constant welts.
Hell, everyone wants a Dormamu moment.
I’ve already given up pieces to dissect
and discard,
late days,
candies,
kisses,
tales,
scritches.
There’s more.
I’d trade an eye to keep the news
from making it weep,
a tongue to give voice
to live ghosts,
an arm for warmth
to one’s who’ve never been hugged, just because.
I spray vinegar water on the floors,
wipe the asbestos tiles, collect
a massacre of segmented bodies
on a paper towel.
What would it take?
A tablespoon of sugar
a day, a cup of honey a week?
What things can I give you?
Melcontents 