Bless you,
stomach pump.
Article continues below
Bless you,
puce hole.
Bless you,
balcony
and cool
air that finds me
éthylique
on the floor
pushing in
the broken door.
I open it
and hate it
with equal
slosh.
Just wetting the
cork,
bless it.
Shorn
plum buds
pruned
from Thai basil
in Italian terracotta.
I do miss
traveling
with my poison
pen, loving
this cocktail,
lying about
would-be
devils, demons-
trating my vile
behaviors, all
excessed
and how
feckless
I used to
behave
bowing
boiling,
baring
my voluptuous
shoulders.
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From Domestirexia by JoAnna Novak. Copyright © 2024. Available from Soft Skull Press. “Dear Unfeeling Martinis” was previously published in Conjunctions.
