Sometimes, I can’t see it, what some call freedom. I
can taste it, condensed milk, a can opener, my pinkie
circles the rim of the mouth, Lady Fingers, plump,
spotted as if pleading to be bitten, oatmeal splayed
across a stone benchtop, untouched since breakfast,
the kitchen sink, devoid of dishes, stupid searching
pupils fail to take it in. I sit there, playing Del Ray’s
The Blackest Day, the ceiling fan serenades, it’s me,
there, then, again, on my own, there is nobody
coming. Alone at the coffee shop, shoulders hunch
over Plath, wrinkled, unsmiling, I imagine high heels,
feel black silk pressed to my chest, I can flavour
freedom, but to see it dictates visits to Vinnies I won’t
make, once owned pre-loveds, long gone to charity.
