Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 17

keeps me up

like the wooden dowel

half-buried in the tomato

planter. Nudges me so close

to calling you

I have to hide

the phone inside

the glass macaroni canister, inside

the pantry with the frosted

glass door. Wants me

to cry so I scrunch my eyes

but nothing comes out.

I watch tv

but the love morphs

every man’s face

into your face, even

Joey Tribbiani’s face,

and laughs at me laughing

at it. Reaches through

our dog, puts its paws

on my collarbone, its nose

on my chest, perks

its ears at 6 a.m. sprinklers.

Reaches through

me, draws your penis

on a Post-it and sticks it

to the window like a first

place ribbon. I never wanted

to see the tomatoes cold and frosted

like this.