【by Maggie Ondrey】

Food clogging a sink drain,
your skin collection in the gutter.
Something garbage disposals gurgle for.
Flesh fingers,
wet bread between my nails—
you’re a clogged body.
Everything is just pouring out of you.
I wish I had closed your eyes.
When someone is dead, be careful.
They watch you and everything you do.
Now I’m stuck under your watchful eye
cleaning the dishes, cleaning myself of you.

Face liquid in the tide,
finger painting your skull
like steak on a porcelain plate.
Hand slips behind your ears,
your scalped back, your fatty tissue,
feeling for your rhythmic tap.
Fold my fingers, scouts honor,
flesh hitting the pads.
Open death’s door
while I break your ribs.
Foam at the mouth.
I meet your lips with mine.

I feel it when my mom puts me on dish duty.
Close my eyes and see the sweat on your lip,
the haunting summer blip.
Squeeze dinner in the depth of the sink,
look you straight in the eye
and watch your very first blink.

Snap closed the tupperware.
I cannot shake your eyes rolling back,
foam falling onto my pink painted toes
and the deep breath I took before without a CPR mask.

I brought you back.
I don’t kiss and tell, you’ll never know. Few do. In highschool
I did it too, don’t worry— your secret’s safe with the girl who saved you.