April 28, 2014

Tiffany Gibert

To feel full again

For luck, sip deeply dyed soft drinks and count
your taste buds in a circle. Write the number
on your mother’s sleeping eyelids.
For comfort, seek the occult,
lie down in a clutter of newspapers
and snip out a week of horoscopes.
Reassemble them.
          A favorable system of black conscience wiggles so
          Let your co-worker go Spill black facts Turn the rock on Tuesday

For balance, buy matching watches
for your wrists. For passion, burn toast
in your bedroom. Stockpile aloe vera
and scorch your arms with the orange-torched hot bits
of metal you find on the street.
For companionship, bribe someone. Beg for relief.
For sanctity, pick the pills off your dog’s winter sweaters.
For humor, go digging into the past
with a sharply serrated grapefruit spoon.

Drink whatever juice you find.

Tiffany Gibert is a writer and editor who lives in Brooklyn. She serves on the Brooklyn Poets Board and has written essays and reviews for The Millions, The Lit Pub, and Kirkus; her poetry has appeared in The Mackinac and is forthcoming in VECTOR.

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