I am wearing a tank top with Hollywood spelled
in silver sequins and a black cardigan covering

my pale pink arms. Lying on the school nurse’s bed,
I am holding my belly like a three-ring binder.

My class upstairs reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame
and my hunched back, spine curled like an orange peel. I am

a pot of liquid bubbling over a stovetop coated
with a thin layer of oil, the transparent film of a hard-boiled egg.

The lid levitates: a girl bewitched by blue flames!

I am casting devilish smells upon the small room as
the nurse with glasses asks Do you want anything?

I want to take a butter-knife, burst every bubble rising
in my stomach. I want to be emptied, filled
with something sturdy: steel, oatmeal…

A circus of amateur fire jugglers convene
within my lower intestine—a repeat of yesterday’s

performance. My body contorts into an S, coils
like the cord of the phone ringing my empty house,

where a spoon clings to the side of a cereal bowl,
edging away from the colored pool of sugar-milk.