Maria Giesbrecht

A LITTLE FERAL

There’s a car in my neighborhood with the bumper sticker

“a little feral” and I think of how yesterday I sawed

off two slices of watermelon and let them drip disgusting

down my elbows. I catch myself sometimes: I forget

to sweep the corners on purpose or run a load of laundry

without soap. I press into the world’s chest—will it budge?

I didn’t know I loved my first boyfriend until I yelled fuck

you one night and he didn’t leave. I do this—I push back

like a palm in church. I didn’t know I loved God until he grated

the black night into my bowl and didn’t flinch when I threw up

a few stars.

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