the years of l'entre deux guerres

Iron Lung

I listen to the high heel clicks
trailing in tedious
formation above me
neighbors are always going out

I would rather stay in
and convince myself
that I have wounds to lick

Maybe tonight I'll pinpoint
why my tea kettle stopped whistling
and took to hissing defensively

And I'll push around the idea
that appliances can adapt
questioning how something can break that is still

But all of this is just one drowsy sentence
I piece together between grinding flecks of mulberry polish
from my thumb with my teeth

You were right
to look at me sideways
with the unspoken agreement that you were only humoring me

Tonight I raise one stained mug to blistered tongue sincerity
to bergamot oil and barefoot hide-outs
to not being stuck in your eye