in the peppermill of her mind,
she feeds kumquats & cherry tomatoes
into the hawk-thrush and blistered-hum
of a dangerous machinery
it churns her thoughts
into a devoted mash of
you-never-have
you-never-will
have-you-never-considered—
her resolve a slow fade
into the oblivion
that only familial-fangs
can dispatch, disguised
within every thin
disingenuous embrace

in her exhaustion, she retreats then
to the city with its 68 stoplights
and crash-happy fast-food,
its assorted Vietnamese nail salons
quaint coffee shops,
dated vintage thrift joints—
electric vibes for a dollar,
shellshocked mannequins
dressed in sequined boas,
their anxiety on display
for the purpled hordes
on north 57th street

she ascends to the spare rooftop
of the four-story boho loft
she shares with a sloe-eyed feral cat
and extends the maw of open arms
stretching out from east to west
under a screaming California sun,
an eruption of restraint—
no longer
can she contain her fury
you’re not jesus too
and either am i