Cold Comfort (please critique)
Filling the shopping cart like this
is an act of desperation, and she knows it.
She adds pints to half-gallons to pops and bars.
At home, her ice chest guards a smorgasboard of memory.
Pushpops coat her fingers in stickiness like Elmer's glue.
The smooth shells of Klondike bars collapse
before she can discard the crinkling wrappers.
Scoops of ice cream mound in her bowl
like the weathered tops of distant hills.
Her silver spoon flashes as she gouges into them,
reducing them first to nutty volcanic ruins,
then to a thin layer of sugared sludge.
When she scrapes the bottom of the bowl,
she imagines herself full
and leaves the melted remains to congeal in the sink.
She collapses into the embrace of last-week's unwashed linens
and dreams of some other life where happiness is not served by the spoonful.