When I have food that needs reviving,
my mother will sometimes tell me to put it in the
microwave
i was asked to remember who I am
and I couldn’t, but I could hear my mother’s silk voice telling me to press “cook time and don’t do it for more than 15 minutes”
so I grab a bowl from the cabinet—
one of the ceramic white ones from IKEA
—and place empathy in it
i place my love for my siblings and how cute
i think my dogs are
i sprinkle my humor and my favorite songs,
Frank Ocean poured over my
laughter
i pour anger and more love on top
and anger on top of that
i have a lot of anger i do not know where to place or who to give to
so it sits in my jacket pocket and behind my ear,
in the crevices of my body
I smear blackness on top.
i place myself inside the tiny black box,
press cook time and watch
myself bubble and hiss through tiny
squares in the glass
and i guess i was spinning and heating for more than
15 minutes because I splatter, and leave stains
like spaghetti all over the white inside of my mother’s microwave
blackness, which looks a lot like anger
and a lot like love
rots the IKEA bowl black
i try to open the microwave and blackness, which has bled into my humor and
my favorite songs
and my anger
and my guilt and frustration and fear
and my love—a lot of love—
is dripping onto the floor
I ask my mother if she knows what do to with all of this.