A sustained bottom note
trill; ribbed noise like
a mallet run down a
baritone bone xylophone.
Everything evanescing, exploding
up through my esophagus;
tiny throat echoing
the turning over of my
guts. The cacophony
leaves a noxious cloud as
wake, the effluvium of Laphroaig,
garlicky grease, red vinegar
and maybe the animal
crackers I dunked in icing,
then ate for breakfast.
It’s an evidentiary emission:
gluttony, shame, poverty, rage
all commingled and half-digested
into a puree mash of self-
loathing, risen up, released
as this hanging, putrescent fog.
Even when I say,
“Excuse me,” it’s obvious
I have betrayed myself.
For the poor girl across
the café table, this is
too much, too soon and proof
that it’s a mistake to assume
you ever really know
what’s going on inside
someone else.
(2004)
