portion of the artwork for Stevie Edwards' poetry

The Best Clean
Stevie Edwards

If I select laundry detergent by sniffing all the bottles for the one
that smells like the best clean, if I borrow my roommate's cart,
haul my hamper to the laundromat, I can clean the sand off the sheets,
bring them home, tuck them tight around the mattress,
and not wake at night itching to be held on the beach again
by some old sweetheart and argue about whether the faint flickering
near the moon is a star or a plane. If I don’t drink whiskey,
my breath smells cleaner in the morning. Everyone needs
a Jewish mother-of-a-friend to tell them their 2-day hangovers
mean something inside is too damaged to filter
the poison. Nobody is going to eat my liver—
who cares what it looks like? I ate rabbit liver in France
and thought about how the rabbit screamed like a newborn
when my dog sunk her teeth into its neck. My neck
could use some adjustment. I woke on my friend’s couch
in my party dress this morning. Dad called to say
they put my dog to sleep. I’d like somebody to tuck me in.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 31 | Winter 2011