A Bitter Eye

I dream that all my life is lost behind me.
It is a tattered movie screen made of flapping bedsheets.
Where did it go?

I eat fruit.
I am not fond of fruit, but I eat it.
I must preserve my health, I think.
I will be old, and there will be no children to take care of me.
If there were children,
I would have called them names like Nyla and Jack,
although children, like fruit, require too much handling.
I don't like to cook.

I've turned a bitter eye on my past.
If I do not love it, I can make it look very far away,
but there is less of me when I do this.
There is less of me for everyone else.
I am an old pie calling her pieces home.
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