Tonight's Poet Corner: No Breakfast

No Breakfast
by Belinda Roddie

The drip of the coffee maker reminds me,
as I sit in the middle of the kitchen,
linoleum soaking up my sins like salt,
that I don't drink coffee. And the ticking

of the clock shaped like an alcoholic
chef pining for another fortnight in France
with her mustached lover reminds me
that I don't have a lot of time left.

We have spun enough cobwebs left
in the corners of the bay window
that I can almost see rainbows refracting
in the dying threads. Hopefully, those rainbows

are as digestible as the little white tablets
I swallow to fight off midnight panic attacks
threatening to dismantle my skeleton
and sell my bones to the black market

just outside my bedroom. I brew tea,
then refuse to sip it, even once it's grown
cold. Then I chill it in the refrigerator overnight,
drop ice into the mug's maw, and then don't

let the stuff touch my swollen lips, which
aren't nearly as edema-stricken as my feet,
which rest like sad tree trunks wrecked
by gymnasium lightning. If she comes back,

maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to stomach
sentimentality again. I'll remember I just
want to feel something again. And once
she returns, I'll make her coffee.