After Picasso’s “The Frugal Repast”

frugal

Breakfast for hungry ghosts
occurs halfway between the pill
and the shotgun, in place
of the battle scenes
which forgot to happen
and the copy of Kafka
she’s planned
to finish.

Not ten minutes after
disrobing shadows
from his bed sheets,
he pours the day’s first crutch
of glass. The bones
stretching his neck
skin, save him
explanation.

In this kitchen
of phosphorous
they pretend
the linger of a
waxy hand is enough,
ignore how their scars
breathe differently
when alone,
when it is only
cold mirrors
in their reflection.

Their skeletal embrace
could mean anything
to this woman who
hates the wind, holds
a heart which stares
blankly from
a prosthetic face
counting her minutes
in the places she’s shivered.

Call it their blue period,
distill their faces
into the people who follow
their own sighs into
circles
frightfully
making this color make sense.

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