DESCRIPTIONS FOR SUNDAY MORNING
When I sleep, I’m asleep, when I wake, I’m not really awake. Freddy’s the opposite, he never really sleeps.
I die in my sleep, and the heat must be brought back to my cold dead blood with a hot shower long enough to ensure that no one else gets one.
I didn’t sleep, I didn’t have to wake, I’m really awake. Come five I thought fuck I have to get up in an hour, but why dread getting up in hour so much when you’re already up? My body feels itself gearing up for some new disaster. I lie naked under a single sheet and think about all the old ladies I’ve known, the crazy ones, the ballet teacher who wore gardenias in her hair and the piano teacher who dyed her hair purple and the mistress of the midwest salon of arts and letters who ate only egg noodles, lined up looking down on me and waiting for me to join them with their eggshell scalps cracking under their thining hairs.
This plastic crap breast pump been sucking away at my tits, one at a time, pulled into the clear funnel where I can see my nipple being stretched forward and a couple of drops only of mother love. Yesterday in a panic I expressed almost every hour and by the end of the day didn’t fill a jigger. You feel really quite sad about this. Zulita can’t depend on my body.