Mewling

 (c) 2/25/2025

Most nights I stuff myself, ravenous

for high-fat foods, alcohol, anything

to push my skin outwards, to increase the plane

the surface, to create space, a range

so that my skin will be brushed

absentmindedly on the sidewalk,

walking in and out of doorways.

I look for opportunities to visit the doctor

and though it pains me to be seen

I drop my drawers in a second. 

All those mammograms. The pokes and prods.

The drawn blood. The speculum.

It is as intimate as the transactional

pedicure, manicure, and massage.

And in grade school I was the target,

pummeled on the playground every few days.

Maybe that had nothing to do with their demons.

Maybe I was genius, making myself mewling

pathetic, a kicked dog. Maybe I knew

it was guaranteed touch.

And Still.

 (c) 2/25/2025

No trip to the Louvre. No fumbling je veux

as we ordered croissants. The plan for Paris never happened.

The week in Tobago, the delicious honeymoon he promised.

All the sea turtles nesting on Irvine Back Bay. No. 

No cross-country trip. And no new couch

even after he ripped the back off my old sofa

 to free his pet corn snake.

 The newest model mustang was reposed. 

The fake job he listed on the sale document,

that job he so bragged about, no  income.

His whole resume a fraud.  Degrees unattained. Positions

never held.  The zirconium wedding ring

to symbolize his love. So much like my father. 

Every year with him was diminishment. And still,

I stayed.