【by Izabella Zohreh】
the yolky, yellow sun is
swaddled by a sky that’s red,
ribbed with fat and blood,
only the blood isn’t really blood,
it’s this thing that my
mother calls myoglobin.
the oozing concoction is
presented on my plate, premature,
congealed and crimson like the child
i wept over, bleeding out on the
bathroom floor.
i never really wanted him,
but i knew- no
i thought- he was a son, sizzling
with potential, promise; my
soul shattered when he tumbled
into the toilet bowl. i
left him for a time, two days,
but eventually, he was
flushed, forgotten.
i wish my mother had made me
breakfast in bed, or took me to
play in the park, ‘cause i’m
looking at her sitting in the
cherry-wood chair trying to celebrate
by munching on raw meat that’s
swimming in a sea of myoglobin.
i don’t think she ever loved me
as much as i love my little boy
who’s probably drowning deep
in the sewer system by now.