by Louise Robertson

She must have been living
on the mat for weeks, fat on
crumbs, sugar, loneliness. Like
a scatter, she scrambles over my knee. Later
she appears on the dash, then on the side
window. Such a big, round
abdomen, shell rubbed and dulled by
the dark afternoon. Will
you be my Wilson, stranded by this
commute, ant? Will you be
a madeleine or lanyard?
A genie’s bottle, more like.
A place to put complaints
described as wishes
and so we drive home—wishing
complaining, wishing.

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