an evening in summer

i capitulate on dinner;

stand vexed by piles of

raw vegetables calling

to me. i cleanse a used

pot of its sticky starch

from rice formerly

steamed. which of these

colored bits of plant life

can i douse liberally in

olive oil and parmesan?

all of it? my gut rumbles

so loud you laugh in

the living room between

sips of rosé.

we stoop sit and smoke.

casually incinerate our

lungs and talk about the

bachelor. the sunset

beckons in red fire; every

night is a fire that burns

the earth to a crisp. we

take turns investigating

google results for which

myth coincides with our

wine thoughts.

are all of these supposed to gut punch you?

is each meal made to sour your guts?

or can you sit and languor and feel your

belly, feel the rise and fall of your belly,

remember what makes you, churning along

like ancient gears below the earth.

you read in bed. i am on

my side, staring at your ribs

pressing against your skin

with each inhale. your breasts

nestled between twin peach-

fuzz arms and cradled by

tolstoy. we had an argument


tolstoy versus dostoyevsky.

it still singes my heart

whenever i reminisce.

we sleep.

the fan is white noise.

the light from the street

splays against the wall

like blades.

the rise and fall, the

percussive life force,

the effervescent hum.

you stop reading this.

you close your eyes.

you breathe until it

is you once again.