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1.

security cameras installed behind

her eyes. the cracked windshield
she doesn't fix until she doesn't

notice it. the day spent shopping
in the strip centers and the mall, until
at the grocery, she finds herself

confused in frozen foods clutching
bags of baby peas, corn nibblets,
searching for the list where she'd
written down her three wishes

2.

always choosing american cheese

as a model for experience, each slice
bland and individually wrapped in 

plastic. in the shower she jokes
that the water running off his penis
makes it look like he's peeing and

he better not. but even when he's 
drying off it drips drips it drips
and she reaches into the medicine
cabinet for a cream to treat her

3.

yeast infection. the painful discharge

one day, an eruption of rash words
screamed at him, complete repeating

the rumors of imagination, a cat
stretches on a coffee table book left
lying open on the floor, licking

its limbs and smothering reproductions
of Klee. his feet shuffle on the cheap
rug while her hands flutter around 
her mouth to light another cigarette

4.

a butterfly carved out of ice. the 

bathroom sink clogged. clumps of hair
and soap scum. a fumbled ring choking

the drain. bills in both names. rental
truck full of furniture. a phone number
where she can reach him, an office

in some suburb of her mind, a night
clerk alert at the desk of her senses
when she sleeps who watches him lie,
dialing 911 on a Fisher-Price phone