asks something about a ‘prognosis’
makes me think of frog noses
I giggle, she squeezes, brows
furrowed. I bite my lip.
Later, licking swirly soft serve in a race
against the hot hot heat, she stares
over my shoulder
under her chin, her spoon
forgotten halfway to her mouth.
I want to tell her
she’s dripping on the table-
she hates when things are messy-
but I keep quiet, scared
of her sighs, of the silence
and of her empty eyes.