Sadness is the stubborn layer of fat
rolling on your stomach
soft but protruding
yellowish, slimy, difficult to shed.
Lard melting on your tongue,
slowly spreading all over the throat
tasting of the hog they killed last week.
It’s the crumbs of bread, shattered glass
dirt brought in from outside
hidden within the fibers of dusty carpet
that you try to beat, but wind always
blows filth right into your eyes.
Sadness—
lives on legs of the spider
you smashed with your shoe this morning.
Metastasis happens rapidly,
spreads through the pipes and mould on the walls.
You lie there, looking at the spider’s corpse
buried in the carpet
with fat building up roll after roll.
Obese existence,
rigor mortis.
