The kitchen has gentle
“Today’s Sunday. I need to speak to you.”
Take Sunday back, then. Drown it!
Sunday is starving itself in a fit of tension;
leather skin begging for lotion.
Weak days have poor eating habits.
Anxious bellies roll,
Un-Sunday, then keep talking!
Your speech has sharp fingertips,
jabbing at my spider webs,
my sticky, thick mesh.
cut jelly rolls,