After “Ars Poetica #100: I Believe” by Elizabeth alexandar

I eat three Klondike bars from Frank’s Deli and Goods 

crusted chocolate on my cheeks as my mother tells me about her enlarged thyroid. 

The poem happens here, between the gaps in my sticky teeth and the coils of my mother’s hair 

This linoleum tabletop, shoving three feet between our elbows, this is what matters.  

A brown Labrador, small pebble lodged in his back left paw, hobbles across Prospect Park and 

finds me, bare-footed and flat-chested.  

Here on my sweaty thighs and wicker blanket and the green grapes scattered in the grass  

is where the poem is.  

Ahmed sells breakfast sandwiches for half price on Mondays 

in a metal cart he stands for nine hours flipping bacon, hot grease scarring his forearms. 

Rolling down his griddle is a poem  

slipping between yolks and toasted hero rolls and ketchup stains. 

Hannah’s father beats her every night, between his second and third scotch 

new bruises spotted each day between the slits in my locker. 

And my poem is in the globs of neosporin she squeezes from my fingertips 

and the soft trumpet jazz on hold for Child Protective Services 

and the chocolate milkshakes salted by our tears.