Jenna Le
Meniscus
If you say D when they want you to say C,
they carve out all your belly fat with a scythe.
Every day, it happens a thousand times:
the greasy pig’s knuckle that is your personal God
rocks back and forth, back and forth, with you
beneath its heel, like an ad executive
trying to rubber-stamp a memo, except
dear-me-Nancy-we’re-out-of-ink-again.
If you speak, it’s in clicks, like a dolphin.
Or, to be quite frank, like Frank playing Minesweeper.
You’ve heard you have a twin, but you’re resigned
to the fact you’ll never meet: you sigh at the X
spray-painted on your bathroom stall and never
dream she sits just on the other side.