Tuesday – by Sarah Satterlee

 

I boil spaghetti in my tee-shirts
alone, gather my socks like it matters,
make phone until someone answers and then
clear my throat. I paint my fingernails, check
the expiration dates in the pantry, toss
what’s stale, brush sticky dye onto my faded
hair, run the shower, shampoo and rinse
until the water runs almost-clear. I drink
gin because it’s there. I lay still inside
my batch of dreams until I wake, my bed sheets
ruffled, a worn cocoon cold under my hands,
my pillow stained; a black continent,
a spilled bouquet of wild orchids.

 

 

 

Sarah Satterlee is a graduate of Rhode Island College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Amaryllis, and The Jawline Review among others. She lives in Rhode Island with her daughter.

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