by SHANNON GUGLIELMO
Every morning I wake up
& jab a thermometer stick
into that stringy place
where your tongue meets
the under gums
before my dream
has really finished
in the half-eye-closed
dark fumble.
For you:
sweet microscopic gumball
you are like those asteroids ripe
with amino acids
coding multitudes
in your soft-bodied sphere.
I adore your fallopian bowling
alley & withstand the sharp-bruise
zippy zap pain. Right side
Mittelschmerz sends
the glitterless snail trail
to fertile clear underwear jelly.
You perch
on the thick squishy lining
a hope globe
a blueprint for breath.
–
Shannon Guglielmo is a poet and math teacher in New York City. Her recent work is featured in Rogue Agent, Bombay Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing and Willows Wept Review. She is a recipient of the Fund for Teachers Award and the Math for America Master Teacher Fellowship.
© Shannon Guglielmo
Halfway Down the Stairs 