left, mortar; right, pestle.
i think that’s just nifty.
i’m just a twenty-three-year-old
white alcoholic, pay me no mind.
allow me harmony
in the basement of the library
with the tall can.
lead my lips out to pasture.
haven’t you heard that you
shouldn’t fence me in?
haven’t you heard i get defensive
when we talk about things?
haven’t you opened your eyes on enough mornings
to know the sun is real and it heats us very, very
strangely? why haven’t you kissed me yet?
is that a threat? is that a veiled invitation?
hold my hand, love, trust fall
into the future with me. let us mingle
with all the wrong people, schmooze
with total assholes. don’t get me wrong,
i use pickup lines. don’t get me wrong,
i’ve heard that one before, don’t get me
wrong, i can tell a few jokes, and don’t
get me wrong, i can take one. i can take
it. ride, die, who cares. we all end
up in the same garbage disposal, we all
circle the drain in our own unique, pretty curl.
my breath glows. the drain on me has become
apparent. i’m not a camel in a desert, i’m
a flower on a windowsill. my petals will never tell you
whether or not he loves you. my heart will never grow
three sizes that day. i’ll never summon the power
of ten hearts, plus two. the whos will go on singing
in whoville and my heart will stay the same size and then
the who dad will grow tired of the who mom and get a look
on his face that is sick, just sick, and he’ll fall asleep next
to the fire and the who mom will wipe her who kid’s nose
and she’ll think, but damn, do i ever love that man. and
then a whisper will fall, so soft and tender from her lips
onto his forehead that the fictional universe
will be leveled to dust.
Amy Carlberg is from Toronto. She's pretty tall and a little mean but she makes a good friend sometimes. Her favorite drink is a Bloody Caesar. Amy also encourages you to check out her work in Issue One of Baldhip Magazine, run by her lovely Canadian gal pals. She's also gal pals with some musicians that she plays music with sometimes, like Toronto-based Mazola.
