Consummation
A Prose Poem

A ceramic bowl sticks to the table, bran flakes floating in the slightly curdled milk. Each person is a bran flake, dropping into the mouth of life one by one, except for me. I lay there on my back, staring at the glass ceiling — swallowed by a bladed gullet.
We are tired of this existence. Our only escape is to collapse onto the bathroom floor, hanging heavy over the sink — dejected. The decorative pebbles sing a symphony of paling hope. The rage makes me want to claw my eyes out in a misplaced effort to forget you.
Tortured by the scenic views of Toronto, all the people cycling by just like you did. Absent lycra shorts, you set off on journeys of the mind, returning in the late evening to have one hand on your phone and one hand down your pants — greased with baby oil. The cotton candy pink cap adorned with specks of white, a pleasure painting. We finish with a three-course meal that comes in three monumental stages — fatal disease, confessions, and bodies' passage.
