The can opener leaves a jagged lip

The can opener leaves a jagged lip,

a silver tongue curled back in a scream.

I stand over the sink, drainage gurgling,

and tilt the yellow kernels into the light.

No butter, no pepper, just the brine

tasting like salt and the inside of a ship.

It’s too much effort to find a bowl

when the floor is the only thing holding me up.

I swallow the sweetness and the grit,

a cold, yellow medicine for a day

that didn't go the way I planned.

The tin is empty, the liquid is gone,

and I am still standing here in the dark.