He wonders how I can sing
about coffee grounds.
Drown the negative out
like an unnamed ghost
inside a Mason jar—
those voodoo things.
Those citrulline stones,
that tan candle.
I try to teach determiners
using space and place
when I don't even get it.
He asks about my day.
I'm doing just great.
Bills I can't pay
and new mascara
and medication
and masturbation
and all those ands
or these?
Like getting phone calls about a felony.
This is your last chance.
But it's all a lie.
And, darling, do I need to do this?
That?
Those things he never listed
saying I need to listen.
When I try,
with pen in hand,
taking notes on his misfortunes
like the full ashtray
and the hair in the sink.
I really try.
I'm two seconds from
blowing my head off
each time he says
I'm lazy
or my class questions
my abilities.
Then there's the coffee pot
and dishes in the sink
and overflow in the garbage.
His, hers, does it matter?
Always the lessons.
I could crack open every sentence
and see the determiners,
mainly his.
Many, most, much.
Clarify instead of dramatize.
I question everything
despite reality
and logic.
Do you love me still?
A little, some, enough.
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