by Catie Nielson

So, God, she’s five foot seven

She loves teeth

I was alone, but

sometimes I was the sea

 

My son cries freshwater tears

I tell him to finish his french toast

while I go on chopping onions

knife aquarium in the sink

 

I sit in the chair across from myself,

a mole tunneling my heart,

gaze at a corner cobweb

and call it prayer

 

This woman sucking honey sticks

exhaling ruddy light

my son makes faces at her back

and her spaghetti bolognese

 

A framed oceanscape hangs

over the frowning toilet seat

the swordfish whispers:

“I get my light from God”

 

And God, as I remember

it was you, on my birthday

I had aged for years, but that day

I had persimmons in my eyes