Lunch
A poem about macaroni.
Dec 9, 2020
I stand over the stove and cook pasta, empty and dumb, blank like a jellyfish, transparent and wet. I am cold. A lake of cream. Soft flannel folds ripple against the shore of my waist and lap the heavy stones at my feet. Here, taste my pasta. It’s warm. Lips of white foam cling to the sides. Let me clean that. I’ll add salt. It’s too thick. The snout of my pig. Let me wipe that from your plate. Please. I insist. It’s so thick. How is it? Do you like it? Take these eyeballs. You might need them. They are tender. I love you. Please. Tell me, how does it taste?
