receipts

dear writer,
is it you then who is replacing all
my grocery receipts with poetry? 
i glanced down at the paper from 
a trip to buy almond milk & there
was a poem i had written in the 8th
grade about brownies. i sat in the front
seat of my car & pressed it open against 
my lap like a dried carnation.
a few weeks ago i stole the same flower
from the center piece at a reception &
i've watched every day as it bleeds
color back into the room-- a dull pink now.

dear writer,
where do you reside? in the mechanism 
of registers? in the earth under 
the supermarket aisles. is
there a pencil where you are?
i see you walking upside
down beneath the check out lanes--
you cover you ears to escape 
the monotony of ringing up groceries

dear writer,
i don't remember this one-- it's
about rib cages. i rolled it up & 
put the poem in the top
drawer of my desk at home-- that's
where i've been keeping them. 
i have the irrational fear that all
my food will turn into your poetry.

dear writer,
i bit an apple today & the flesh
underneath was all type-face
Georgia font. it tasted like a
back porch & a glass of unsweetened 
iced tea-- ice cubes clinking against
my teeth 

dear writer,
are you stealing the transactions--
keeping track of my honey crisp apples
& my unisex razors. do you eat enough?
is there someone there to brush
your hair (with it still being
so long).

dear writer,
the poems get older-- farther away
from me as i read them. i go to the 
grocery store nearly every day 
as a result of habit or possession. 
i eat a handful of grapes in
the produce aisle to tempt you--
i put my palm on the scanner
at the self check out in an  attempt
to touch you.

dear writer,
i liked the poem about the four seasons.
it's funny because i'd never write about
the four seasons now. you had a good take
on it. i hope you keep writing.

dear writer,
i'm hungry & i poured the milk
out into  the grass last night because
all i could taste was the bars of 
a bunk bed-- the springs aching--
the top bunk tired from standing,
knees locked, for so many nights 
overhead. i tried to swallow but 
the acidic burn of night light
was too much for me  

dear writer,
will you feed me again? i keep
hoping there will come a message--
a telegraph back to me. even as i 
write you i feel as though you 
are unbecoming-- loose beads
in a plastic tray. i don't want
to string you-- i just want to know
what you're doing here

dear writer,
no one else sees your poetry. there's
so many receipts now that i went to
dispose of some & my ghosts read aloud
the shopping lists-- the quinces &
apricots-- the baby carrots & cream cheese--
all food run dry.
i see you couched & barefoot, crunching
on the carrots, dipping them in 
the tub of hummus. oh writer
i am hungry

oh writer,
i washed the papers in the kitchen 
sink with the purple sponge. your words
were reluctant as always but the 
groceries came back. i sat on the end
of the bed & consumed a whole bag of
apples. do we taste like apples?

dear writer,
will you come back then, it's been too
long without your poetry. why should
we choose between the word & our tongues.
i lingered by the check out machine, 
receipt in hand-- reading aloud 
light ice cream
spring mix salad 
hoping i could summon you 
& we would reunite

dear writer,
build me a top bunk & sleep 
above me tonight