The snack aisle strikes me as too peppy. And
I tripped on my own shoes trying to self-
checkout too many apricots. Nina Simone on low
volume’s really bumming me out. This year,
I cried in your kitchen while you made crepes.
I stole a tub of ricotta cheese. I was late
on purpose and I never did my laundry. It’s fine
when the sun’s out. UV kills the mould though
it won’t get the jam stain out of my singlet. Listen,
there’s so much work being done. So much
gathering and display and it’s fine and it’s fine
and everything that ever could be taken away
Ellen Morgan Butler is originally from Nashville, Tennessee, and has been living and writing in Wellington since 2017. You can read more of her poetry and short fiction in Takahē, Mayhem, Turbine│Kapohau, and elsewhere.