Someone grabs the rouge from the sunset
and dabs her with nostalgia.
The cruel winter waitresses
Roles reversed, I always see her
at the sink, soaping dishes.
She has the resolve of a solid,
but the travel of an apparition,
for her sneakers are winged.
She has her fist in the air,
but I see her as the olive
in the Martini.
My rapist, my most captivating of neighbors.
I’m jailed by nausea
and the flaps of my wigwam.
I don’t smoke,
so the air isn’t gagging.
Sterile nurses know me like daughters
and blood pressure cuffs hold to me like jewelry.
The blood in my veins
races for the blobby concept –
a sonogram of a double Earth.
Amanda Tumminaro lives in Illinois with her family. Her poetry has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Squawk Back, Digital Papercut, Oddball Magazine and Three and half point 9, among others.