***BIO*** Arlene Ang lives in Spinea, Italy where the funeral parlors are convinced she needs their services. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in ANON, Forklift Ohio, Thieves Jargon and 21 Stars Review. She appears to have a heartbeat. For a good snore, visit: http://www.leafscape.org/aang.
2007 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.
Please Meet My Table
by Arlene Ang
It's Formica. We're in, what you would call, a relationship. One day I woke up under it. I know. It looks better on film. You look as if you haven't lain under one for sometime. At least, that's what my hairdresser says. She uses saran wrap to cover her furniture. It was a bad idea inviting my neighbors to the New Year's Eve party. You're bound to learn these lessons once you're seeing someone you should stay away from. A therapist, for one. Or a spouse with sweaty hands. I can still fit my first marriage into a coffee mug. Thirst can drive animals out of the cave art. I've recently moved from Cincinnati myself. Scabs never lie. I'm not sure I should've stuck my head out the window. I like to observe what I vomit, watch the fizzle. That night the fireworks burst at ten-second intervals into flower-shapes. _Love me, love me not._ I find that if I lie softly under the table, I can identify the feet of those going in and out the room. You shouldn't talk politics before you've put on your teeth. That's my grandmother's advice. A bed of egg sandwiches is still a bed.
Aug. 2007