Spew
Isobel Dixon


Lasso, lasso, lasso
the sprinklers sough.
For coolth, you can lean
into the wet sheet sails
draped on the line
already drying
in the whipcrack afternoon.

Becalmed, your breath
the only stir
in the supine night,
you can line your spine up
with the wall's sheer white,
let the plaster take 
your body's heat.

Flip the pillows
on the griddle of the bed
seeking out the only
sweet spot left
to lay your head.
Hold the milk jug
from the fridge against

your cheek, brief chill.
But your pooled 
blood simmers on —
you will be spat out
for its lukewarm spill
and the heart's dull pull:
ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.