food poisoning

it retches me

                mute percolation

a space in my diaphragm, excess,
yolk flakes scraped to the edge of
the place:
white china at the core

something’s off in the toast I had for breakfast,
I think, or
maybe the jam

smattered
with lukewarm tea water and
pickle-bile on the porcelain bowls
leaving me
behind

yet still,
this aftertaste

won’t go