32 flavors of non-fat yogurt 

this is the story about gods
of small plastic containers,
stacking themselves in rows. 
the miniature domains. peel off
the lid on the top of my skull.
every universe stacked in the grocery 
aisle. jesus multiplying the loaves 
only this time they're yogurts. 
i also eat yogurt but i'm smart because
i distrust it. question it's 
goals, what it wants with us. 
it would be easier, yes, easier
if my bones were malleable & 
recyclable. in the light of a fridge or
maybe a moon-roof she peels
off the lid & asks what kind
of music they'll be playing inside.
a slice of key lime pie the size
of a thimble at best. a quiet sugar.
(if there is any sugar left). when we
run out we'll have to call each 
other aspartame in the dark. you're
a sweet girl-- you don't need much 
room. & there she can wear too
much makeup & consume without 
utensils. lay back on the spoon,
a sturdy recliner. no one has to know that
she keeps boston cream pies &
occasionally red velvet cakes 
as lovers. her husband, a fork. 
what good is a fork? 
the lovers dress her sometimes:
in ruffles, &, if it's hot outside
& the kids aren't biting each other,
a bathing suite. a one piece,
because no one wants to see that.
the god of small containers has
a sense of mercy & cruelty. 
we talk from time to time. i stand
to eat just like my mother just
like my father just like the light
from the fridge: dim & reminiscent of
a firefly asleep with his 
body still on. sleep in a small container.
the taste of lemon meringue. i crouch inside.
i close my eyes to listen to 
the shedding of pie crusts in 
the waste basket. spit out the last
mouthful. there are smaller containers.
i wore a button-up & left the girl
dangling neatly on a hanger in the closet.
she is rightfully ravenous, but i close
the closet door. 
i ask for more.