nothing left in the tolerance tank

Do excuse the luminous toxin that migrated

from the stash in my handbag to your tuna sushi.

Please accept my condolences on the fatal stabbing

(with a buttercream-encrusted cake cutter)

of the matron of honor at your wedding reception.

Forgive me for introducing your new husband

(the uprooted, sad-eyed Jew) to my stockbroker

as a "forlorn pork spurner." I meant no harm.

I just had nothing left in the tolerance tank.

For 8 weeks now I've been dating a grave robber

who'll never take me out at night. I'm sick

of lunches in broad daylight with this drowsy

guy who has lead-colored dirt packed under

his nails. Waiters stare at his hands like

they've seen a spook when he points out

what he wants on the menu, usually something

drowning in gravy. Most of all, pardon me

for riding roughshod over your tender confession

about poisoning your mother over the course

of a decade, a project you reported the results

of twice daily on your formerly anonymous

blog called Toxicmom.com.

[Amy Gerstler, 'Contrite', in Dearest Creature]