Margo Lapierre
DOMESTIC, DISORDERED
Into the coffee table’s glossy surface
I scratch a vicious gasp.
I lay myself down to cry on the hard planes
of the house. Yesterday you broke tufts of indica
and left them there, like last week.
In this photo I have a broom in my hand.
In this one I don’t.
In this photo I can’t tell time.
Did you out me and discuss my daily failures?
I forget how to brush my hair.
I forget how to wash.
Unlearning your likes wasn’t my intent, but
it was easier than tending the orchid,
whose blooms dropped.
I no longer see the o, the dimple, in your cheek.
The cat came back punctured and ticked.
Yesterday you left me here, last week.
Margo LaPierre (www.margolapierreeditor.com) is a queer, bipolar Canadian poet and editor. Her debut collection, Washing Off the Raccoon Eyes, was published by Guernica Editions in 2017. She is newsletter editor of Arc Poetry Magazine, membership chair of the Editors Canada Ottawa-Gatineau branch, member of poetry collective VII, and a poetry selector of Bywords Magazine. Her work has been published in filling Station, CAROUSEL, Train Journal, and others. She/her. @margolapierre