I put on liquid eyeliner, but my dog
has cysts between her toes.
I drive to a bar and sit out front
with the engine running, then drive back home.
It’s true, I call my mother, drunk, to ask about
her god, but the next day
I don’t remember my questions, or her answers;
I can’t recall the shape of the moon.
A student says he thinks I assign homework
so I’ll have something to do when I go home.
It’s true, I don’t have anyone to listen
the nothing I have to say.
Brenna Womer is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University where she teaches composition and literature and serves as an associate editor of Passages North. She lives in the Upper Peninsula with her pit bull rescue, Basil, and isn’t very good at keeping her plants alive. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Normal School, DIAGRAM, The Pinch, Hippocampus, Booth, and elsewhere. For more work, visit www.brennawomer.com.