Ok Mickey Roberts you asked for it…

I press the shape of myself into

the dripping Belgian batter

and it takes me badly—

bubbles rising like failed lungs,

a smell already turning.

It grips and slips at once,

lukewarm, unwilling to decide.

I keep pressing—

it roams,

gathers where it should not gather.

Surface puckers, opens,

closes again around nothing.

A thin froth dribbles up the sides,

sour, faintly sweet,

already spoiled.

I feel it take an impression

and lose it immediately,

over and over,

as if it cannot remember what I am.

Then,

the iron comes down.

A wet hiss, something trapped and working.

The smell thickens,

turns on itself—smoke, the smoke!

When it opens, I come apart in pieces—

supple and neatly portioned,

piping hot—

each square holding a bad copy,

each one leaking into the next.

You’re up Alexander Tkachuk Micah Kimber Will G.