Again

Erica Yuen

I.
Atlantic waters never once
clashed in our time.
Folding my legs
over the arms
of this rocking chair,
I remember
with each
seasick
undulation
of my hips,
the way your kisses
sucked the vomit
from my throat,
and then you said
I tasted sweet
nonetheless.

II.
Below the window sill,
armies of ants
converge on the
soup-stained carpet,
yet another of
my mistakes.
As I cry, appalled,
individual carpet hairs
stand on end
like my cat's fur
when she's frightened.
Shaky razor blades
slash at the stains
like a lost little girl
threading her arms through
tall prairie grass.