Servings Per Container About 6

I pulled a wrapper
from the soda
bottle smashed in
the street and called it
text. And the words
still shake from the tire
burn, the weight
of the concrete
beneath them. They
are thankful to be
immortalized by their carbon
shadow, and mock, almost
howl at the paper
straw dissolving
in my latte and
the news ink smudging
thumb prints
on your cheek.


planes pass your window
every minute and even
an orange helicopter

your leaves take
the sun
the white sun and you

run slender fingers
through your midnight
haircut and the one

you gave Sam
and the cheery
bottle tip of the last

of the black bottle
of drip of berry
wine at midnight

of last night
you see a plane to
the left and much further

the right and they
see one another
and this means minutes

you microwave coffee
and speak ginger poems
to the planes

give them names
and cool your forehead
on the glass

In so far

I know that
the Rodin at
the Harvard
Art Museum is
in front of
the Monet for
a reason. I choose
where to put
my plants based
on where the
shadows fall. I
eat rice twice
a day. I have nothing
else to say about
the sky greying.
It was too white
outside to see
the snow at 4 pm
but now it’s black.
I forget the American
spelling of gray
and don’t want
to be mistaken
for someone who
adds u’s to neighborhood
and color. I think
this is funny because
I hate Anglophiles.
My blankets are
a ball on my bed
and I’m the pink
lump next to
them. Together we
are your favorite
piece by Louise
Bourgeois. I start
talking about yellow
when I decide I’m
done with apathy. I
drink orange juice
and listen to
Orange Juice. I
decide that
I’ll never continue
a conversation
with someone
who self-identifies
as an asshole and that
peonies are a watery
pink and to think
about Elizabeth Bishop
peeing on the floor and
how New England smells
like salt and
freezing wind. I
listen to the news
while a candle
burns down to the
glass and dance
around my
apartment in
my girlfriend’s
underwear. If I stand
in the sun I’ll be
sunshine, maybe even
red and burning and
enormous. I come
to an informed
decision about
who I’m voting
for and knock
on every door
in America. I
never leave
my room because
the internet can show
me Iceland and
Nairobi and
the houses on
the street where I
grew up. I lose my
footing on the
stairs and do
a timestep. I choose
the body wash
for sensitive skin. I push
my school building
into the Boston
Harbor and buy
a plane seat at
a ticket counter.
I put the flat
green soda bottle in
the gutter in
this poem and
the next one.

Julia Lattimer holds an MFA from UMass Boston, where they were the Editor-in-chief of Breakwater Review. Their work can be found in Hobart, Scoundrel Time, and other places you can see on They live in Texas.