sinning

the morning after i drank a carafe half-filled with gin

i wake up to a cold surface against my back, my laptop.

i open it and stay in bed till noon.

i read poems of forough farrokhzad, balancing the cold laptop on my stomach

scrolling the web page with my dry-er left hand, the right one sticky

and crumpled sheets of bamboo-sourced paper towels next to my bed.