by Michele Evans

charybdia

[kah-rib-dee-ah] n. pr.
a sea monster in homer's odyssey


                        
one.

this midnight beast compels my nervous stomach to howl as rosy fingertips
dive deeply into pools near the back of my throat. three times each day 
i spew up sickness, whatever mom forced fed me before, this unhealthy
(life threatening ritual) way of carving too thick thighs, tree trunks 
rooted in disguise because endless hundreds on worn tracks did nothing 
for my never petite, never rock hard, never bikini ready bod, 
so i flushed chunks, flesh outracing globs of bile, round and round until 
eye won, till i was no longer (in)visible anymore.

two.

mom always said nothing good happens after midnight, so when i get caught 
between a rock and hard place i know she is right before i tripped, facepalming 
with the white porcelain from years ago, too loudspeakers drowned out his true 
intentions as my innocence grasped the frosted rosé he generously sent my way. 
a vile poisonous pinch swirling round and round until melting on the glass floor,
my shapeless body by the narrow alleyway door, where laid out on my back 
i stared past nobody, a faceless lout from a distorted reality, the roof above 
disappearing into a blackened sky as he swallowed me whole.

three.

when mom released the refrain clogged in her windpipe, i discovered the big rocks 
of her life metastasized. yellowed, like pages from a worn story, she “survived” 
on a liquid diet cocktail, one part chemo, two parts faith, with a splash of radiation, 
traveling her canals, reducing her from trunk to twig, upchucking everything, sometimes
nothing, a nervous stomach feeding on what i use to starve. swallowed whole 
by a [sic] headed monster, her wrinkly pink fingertips pressed together in prayer 
choosing the lesser of two evils, she refused to pay homage anymore, so i watched 
her life whirlpool down the drain littering the sea for one last midnight.

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