One day, the façade of giving a fuck
just fell away like dead skin. Feckless and fat,
she was like the old hippo at the zoo.

Day after day watching ugly faces,
the sticky hands of spoiled
children grabbing through bars,
the greasy parents sharpening
their fangs, foaming at the mouth—
She fantasized about ramming her car into

the Tesla bruh who honked at her,
his stupid beard, his energy drink.
Something small and wounded bubbled up

in her throat, threatened to choke
the living shit out of Elon Musk.

The man god had given her
became needy during this time,
pawing at her, explaining
all his favorite concepts. She said nothing,
stepped out into the spring evening
and listened to the earth’s long list

of grievances. She put her bare soles
on the grass and watched the birds
in their cities while the man droned
on and on like a newscaster wearing beige.

She paid for bad therapy, fast
fashion, and threadbare sex. She thirsted
for healing, a fistful of forgiveness,
a thimble of grace. She tried Reiki,

acupuncture, she tried not to try at all.
She fasted, she mourned her old life.
She thought maybe a series
of letters to Modigliani’s girlfriend,
My dearest, why the long face? A project
worthy of her time. Or maybe, some bees.
She would learn to speak to bees.