Freezer Waffles

It’s somehow after noon, and I’m

Sitting over a plate of freezer waffles.

Sitting, though, lightly to show

Care for the lacerated tear down there.

My husband’s wildest fantasy now

Humbled in the company of his wife’s 

Medicated hemorrhoid pads.

. . .

What I want to tell God after two

Syrupy bites is to stop his goddamned 

Wheel of time for a second. To please not

Let it go dark out just yet. It hasn’t been

Day long enough for it to be night again

Already. How does five o’clock get its

Hands so tight around a weak neck?

. . .

Anyway, I’m a drug mule with a clogged

Duct who delivers the good blindly,

But a baby has to eat, hasn’t she? I’d 

Reckon she’s more animal than girl

At the moment with an appetite 

More for milk than her mother.

Quite practical.

. . .

And maybe that’s the way it ought to be.

I can’t even look her in the eyes respectfully.

I’m still imagining her being dropped,

Her small head splitting open the way a 

Watermelon would if it hit just right.

Would I have to be the one to clean it up?

Surely I wouldn’t have to be the one.

. . .

This is about the place in the poem where I’m

Supposed to tell you that her puffs of 

Infant breath are what pardon all the pain.

Better writers than me say to wait,

Wait to write until you’re good and level.

And good and level I’m certainly not. But 

Foolishly, this time I’ll write to remember

That healing’s a blister,

That healing’s hard fought.