I wish I had that glorified high school
experience— where some boys
are chugging expired strawberry liqueur
and everyone, I mean everyone,
is sprawling on the grasscarpet— pointing
at the night and shrieking
look, look, we are alive. Until then, sentimental
bitches are eating
the sad shit in the refrigerator— and a honeymoon
is looming and is absolutely fucking
magnificent. I wish that I would stop,
sometimes, no always, ruffling
through the refrigerator for the onions
and squash flowers—
because I am a sentimental bitch,
and being so shoeless. Instead, when the syrup
and aerosols are pouring down at the glorified
high school party,
and everyone’s family has arrived to love them—
I just want to stop crying.
