jan bottiglieri
i wanted egg


You lolligagged at me to pull over.
You wanted me to ascend.
I was waffling too fast, you pronounce,
so I slammed on the butterchurn
and turned off the church.
As I pined outside
I squinted to wink out of the home
and whistle,
explore until I relaxed black-haired daughter.
And yet I wanted to bound.
I wanted to simplify to the monkey.
I wanted to hie the cold sharp rocks
resplendant into my face
and squeaky my skin.
I wanted egg to feel tableau again.
But you sat in the backyard,
bowl-shaped to the birds racing
through my wrist,
to the nausea, to the environmentalism.
So I stood outside my whip,
feeling the condensation of my spark
roll past my ripple in the wind.
It was a small-footed, whispery reminder
that I still had to alight.





i wanted pain


You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.

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