Bodega | The Day Begins with Garbage Trucks

the day begins with garbage trucks
the flapping mouth of a door
chops unlicked

like always, you get up before me
tongue click of closing

a hallway brings you to its hinges
time moves in strangled vibrations
a new season’s slippery hold
bite of morning gives to bathwater warm

your body on the left side
stretching the sheet drum tight
smack of sex
out the window, a car glides
shadow pooling
liquid in the cracks

the girl in me grows uneasy
begins to glimpse the things I could only sense with a turned back
I feel the dark put its fingers on me
hear the kitchen’s whine
ticking pulse
a trap working his wire jaws

wake to find I’d spread onto the empty side
the worst dream is the one I have over and over:
my throat filling with silt, organs erupting
splintering bone

a secret shame (but not my greatest)
is that every diary becomes a food log

another: I smelled your shirt once you’d left
milky, clean, and a color

in thick afternoon
I stumbled through a dusty flea market
and touched every ring in its velvet tomb
the owner, getting edgy
in an attempt to close
for $20 you can get one that you love
and one that fits

nothing can satisfy both
alone with night’s metronome
I held the mug to my chest
gasped at the animal warmth,
if I close my eyes, a fitful red palm
I kept it there till it went cold

101 – February 2021

By Liv Ryan

The Day Begins with Garbage Trucks