There was one joy –
I sat on his lap
And into my eyes
He spilled juice from the orange peel.
Then he forgot me,
When he lit a cigarette
But I still could not walk very well,
I came sliding off his lap
And pressed my cheek to his shoe.
How different is the sound under the table
Of guests’ voices,
Muffled sounds.
Muffled space.
Barely,
Barely had my eyelashes
Dried from the drenching of orange juice.
There was this one joy.