Two tabs of Memory, a shot of Mind’s
Eye, and the tsunamis rise. Vile temper

of the garbage disposal, how it grinds
and screams on nothing behind black rubber

teeth. I’ve inched my fingers to that maw. Dread,
though, stops me: once in there’s no coming home.

That’s not love, you said. Odd, you’ve also said
it’s all love. I remember that my own

temper was filled with screaming, with sea storms
wrecking coasts. You tried to temper my muse.

Nothing calms tempests; like the disposal
I still consume all. Ghost hunger deforms

my dread, makes it something that you’ll confuse
for hope, for home, for something beautiful.