My brain eats itself if
it doesn’t have anything else to do.
Middle of the night is
prime feeding time for cannibals.
I read somewhere that if you
feed a brain
almonds, it will be a docile
lion, licking its paws,
blinking its soft yellow
eyes.
But if the almonds remain in the
plastic bag in the
tin can on the
counter in the
kitchen, far
from the lion’s mouth,
my brain’s licking of paws
(that appointment, don’t forget,
she offended me today,
I said the wrong thing,
buy new pens tomorrow)
becomes
nibbling and then
gnawing and then
ferocious munching of
the only thing it can find
(its own convoluted arm,
its persistently present elbow)
until 3 a.m., 4 a.m.,
a feast of hurts-hopes-plans
devoured
until the sun rises and the
lion can see
its own carnage.
One self-mauled lion in the cage.
It’s easier to get up and eat
almonds.
mapping the terrain 