Running out the door to report
a yellow, bubbly, transparent feeling in my arms
to my therapist, who was thrilled with my
so-called liberating weekend,
I grabbed an old empty yogurt container from Jennifer,
who orchestrated all,
and filled it to the brim with hot, steaming polenta
and cooked down mushrooms
and eggplant that had too much salt,
which was my fault,
and a plastic spoon to consume the rest, which
I did, flying down the street to the blue line, which
took me downtown as I
munched on dinner-to-go.

Adrienne D. Mishkin