Press on my neck

In this body-weathered bed, i swirl and splash-

churn an oil-slick sheen over coffee ground sheets.

I try my belly,

neck craning over a hot, lumpy pillow.

The low thread-count folds press on my neck.

I can breathe, but the resentful press is all i know.

Stained-hot ceramic in my grateful hands-

coffee, notes of pepper and acid,

burning my eyes.

I swallow it hot, lumpy.

I can taste it, but the sagging lump is all i feel.

I make the most of it.