Porno

I must have blacked out on the treadmill again. I've been breast-feeding too much. I need to savor this material. I move the carriage from machine to machine, stumbling with my red scratched face, my son within his bundle gurgling the milk he pilfers like his father pilfers in the little hole I've wrapped them both up in. Akimbo on the elliptical, you pump enough and god squeaks through, I hammer my legs, the baby held firm, not sliding from my lap, whence he came and whence my clutch returns him, I laugh, shining into the foodless day. He bobs, undulates, writhing, sticker swollen, bustling zipped between my spandex louder than the people talking next to us, his mouth chunking out the wadded paper scent of whatever's left stewing in my body. I need a little Christmas feeling ever since I escaped Hiroshima with his father's relatives and their callous skin and ideals about money. I need shoes that don't hate me. I need to shed what's left of this body. My ribs aren't properly existing. I dote under the arm machine, my son's head fastened between my knees so no one steals him. I often feel he's chased by a world composed of mere porno.

Sean Kilpatrick