pocket salad

 

after the fire dies out

I spread the embers

into a galaxy

then a black hole

with it the fluffed tickets

the burnt edges scraped with a knife

the sloshed broth

oil burnt to kerosene

to ashes

with the grease on my forehead

the irremediable stink of shrimp hands

lambs blood on my shoulder

to ashes

the rubber slip mats

conceal wet messes

its like sweeping water

I think between the eyes of a migraine

in the pocket of my apron

i confide the panic

the twist ties that bind beets

rubber bands that belt the carrots

i conceal the peels