Pulp
Your pale face, blue-lipped, starving
eats the bleached paper, swallowing
written word and a numbered edge
to satisfy a stomach ache, lusting
for the jet black ink of thought,
jotted down on the facade of lined paper.
By now, the whole notebook is in
the cheeks of your mouth.
Your molars, crushing the paper into pulp,
and your tongue, shoving the soggy mess down
the opening of your throat.
I’d find it ironic if
this very piece got swallowed.
Funnier still if some of it
got stuck in your teeth.
