i. She grips the bowl with her left hand, pressing it into her side-- a toddler who's grown drowsy, tired of walking. “Morning.” This is a small dose, non-lethal. The recipe she has taped to the inner pantry door calls for two overripe bananas. She has sat them on the counter all week waiting for them to turn. There are fruit flies circling the yellowed kitchen. We know there is something sweet and rotting here, ready to be made into mush, buzzing swatted away at. The dial turns to 350, I know how to prepare. I know this scent and how the room fills with oven heat. I know, this is how things are made. With her right hand, she twirls the whisk about the batter. Now, I cannot discern its reality without opening the pantry postered with printed instructions-- her steady arm ensures this. ii. Our tongues are dense with bread sat atop them. Only I seem to know how to swallow mine, how to build an endurance. We are tired of talking. Her head is turned away, looking through the window and looking at that sun and how it must be noon already. I know it is nearly two. Hanging on the wall, there is a clock she has not bothered to set forward. The hands are too small for her to read and she doesn’t mind not knowing. At this table, I’ve noticed pain in my stomach. There are many churning attempts. I can’t hide the concern from my eyes, clearly it isn’t noon. Still time in the day to flee to the woods as Mithridates had. iii. i hav givin upp on ahgreemint / knot a dae goes bye / withoutt nues winkin att us width eech i / knot evin / mye gayz cann i truste ehnymor / nore cann i beleeve mye eers / wen shee loocks oute the whindow / ande descrybes wat shee ceese / allways ten degrease ahway phrom cirkling aroun too cee eechother i too i / tho mye fays loocks justt lyk hurs / wen i sckuint att the clok / howe loung untel mye mind / soffens too thees blindead, turnning beleafs / lyk a livir sokeing inn poisen?
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