What a pickle

 
I chew pickled carrots beside the toilet, 
waiting for the bath to fill. 
Each carrot is the length of finger – snap. 

I lick the vinegar off my thumbs.
My cold sore is a nibbling imp.

How do I annul this marriage?
I don’t hate my husband. I only 
want to shit in this toilet 
audience-free.

I cycled to work today. I cycled home.
A Civic glanced my handlebars
on the corner of Harvey and Gordon.

I’d only had two shots – Captain Morgan – 
before cycling home. I don’t think
I was in the wrong. 

I must be sleeping with that driver
– according to my husband –
because why else would someone hit me?

I envy these carrots their spines. 
How they take the edge off hunger
while leaving you empty. 

I’m half-reclined in half-warm water, 
half in and half out of this marriage, 
the bag, chewing
garlic from the bottom of the jar.



Urine: Thought Police # 8

 
You are among the worst, the pressure
that dogs me everywhere.
I piss in the pool and don’t tell anyone.
I piss in the men’s washroom
at work, after everyone else 
has gone home – a power play.
I rush to the bathroom at 2:00 am. 
My husband sits up in bed. He wants to see
my phone. My urine 
is a barbed canker worm, filling the space 
between heart and cunt. I can’t
wear fitted dresses, fitted pants. I burst
under pressure. I jog up onto the ridgeline,
smoke everywhere, but I still
drink and drink. My mouth
is a wasteland. I piss
in the middle of the trail. I piss 
on my shoe, my brand-new Nikes, 
and don’t wash it off.
Welcome, I tell the laces. Here we are.