Crullers are lonely, sweet breakfast tornadoes
Crullers are lonely, sweet breakfast tornadoes staging
apology tours on your paper plate. They’re also solving
mysteries in the Midwest—today’s quest: why we continue to
eat Cadbury eggs rolled in pink, spring green, and blue foil that have
reduced in size, increased in price, advertised with ever larger rabbits
over the decades. We have seen the future and it is
not egg-shaped. Think cylinder, churro, funnel.
Crème eggs and rabbits are still mandatory for
resurrection. Remember nobunny knows it better. Think
ovulation cycle, overpopulation, Oliver North.
We polluted our dreams and found ourselves
edging to starvation without an egg to beat.
After three months
Sometimes the idea
of something naughty is
better than the actual
your sheets. Sometimes it’s
better to let things live
only in the mind. Not in
bed—the room’s dark. Is it
better to dream or live?
Your back’s pink and scarred.
Vain attempts at art always get noticed. You tend to
auto-skip the credits of a show and forget that
nabbing a nap or an enabling partner are directions on
cue cards held up by your inner child who is now
emerging from a crypt built out of neglect. You say,
welcome to the nightmare I call home. Welcome
ancestors who search for the shining
green light at the end of the dock and collect
grandfather clocks that chime the hours. You
orchestrate your escape with poems and vodka. It’s
not your fault you were born—not your fault that
every day is different, but not. Awakened from your
rudeness coma, you browse Netflix for ideas.
Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet's Haven, 2019). Recent work published in Harpy Hybrid Review and Stanchion. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.