comfort

by Samantha Silverman

the television writhing
hums a midday incantation.
 
What I have lost
behind the sweaty
glass or the weeping coil
of a blurry mattress
 
cannot be measured out into tiny spoons
and poured into the obesity of a plastic mixing bowl.
 
 
 
This (this!) is what I have found
 
frothing at the edges
of an itchy lip
 
that breaks
at the murmur
of a fading laugh track