Ode to bitterness, ode to jealously and wrath. 

Wrath that yawns, jealousy that billows. 

Long sleeves, fishhook snagging heel. 

Angel of pulling the tassels from my sister’s bike handlebars, 

patron saint of pointed lack of eye contact. Fucking bitch. 

The woman I am talking about is not a good one. 

Little dirtbed baby, salt in the sugar pot doll. 

Something sweet to pull my fingers from and wipe 

on the tablecloth, something left in the bowl I’d like to lick clean. 

It’s too early for that. It’s always too early for that. Shooting an arrow 

through those angels and stringing them up. Pull down the shades 

and lock the door. Let me slip into my very worst personality.

Jane Donohue is a writer of poetry and prose from New Hampshire. Her work has been featured in the Northern New England Review, the Woven Tale Press, and TXTOBJX, and is forthcoming in On the Seawall and Autofocus.