whipped cream

i used to eat everything by tablespoon.
bees & caterpillars & birthdays.
you tell me i need to stop thinking
that i am alone. i have never confessed to you
about the plum tree or even 
the ghost kitchen. i stand there
at night & prune leaves. open the fridge
to find rows & rows of whipped cream.
"feast" is a word that has never
come to visit my teeth. instead,
i know the mundane famine of almost living.
almost enough. almost on fire.
almost homeless. almost eating plastic.
almost kissing a dagger. so badly i want 
to not have to return to these sepulchers
i want to crack a whole carton of eggs into the pan.
feed all the wandering bears but not feed
myself. dear lover, here it is.
here is the grove of horses. here are
their hooves. here is the last time
i ran. to be not alone would mean
i would need to show you the light bulbs.
that is too much work for one lifetime,
isn't it? well, tonight i will show you
one thing. here is the bowl of whipped cream.
here is the spoon i use. here is 
the way my stomach feels full of clouds
when i am done. here is how
i try to lick the last tastes of sweetness 
from the bottom of the bowl.