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Self-Preservation 101

I was told to never eat while standing,
to leave the wood floor hungry.
The mop would hunt the crumbs
of childhood and the cheese noodles
shaped like cartoons.
I’d squint to catch autumn’s eye,
gathering the ruched orange war.
In the backyard I’d make bones out of wine
glasses to separate the bathroom skin
from the memory of the house.
I’d slice slowly at first, but then jump the marrow
for the lidocaine of salt and icy vinegar.
When the solstice outside
would have a new baby
and scatter its quinoa like blood
across the bushes,
I’d pretend God chose
me to clean the interior twigs
with a shovel and my own death.
After sitting and finishing my my meal,
I’d scratch with sticks until my mother
noticed the cherry-seed stains on my shirt.
I’d tell her it was just depression and not the heart
of the beating bush.

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Nicole F. Kimball is an emerging poet and artist from Salt Lake City, Utah. Her debut work of fiction is forthcoming in print later this year. Nicole loves to spend time with her husband, and Chihuahua named Tinkerbelle. A proud Piscean and pianist, Nicole’s poems are in several literary journals.