To cook a bowl of pasta alle acciughe,
To make flesh melt into salt and
Sea-bright sinus-stinging mouthfuls, I want
To taste chlorine on every forchetta twirled
Manic neat like crochet or coin collections.
Have you ever sucked a penny just to feel
More? The snarled length of your
Guts and glory are the way to go, but I like
Pasta alla amatriciana and the bite.
(It bites back, did you know it bites?) I like
Bleeding, or else singing, I like knowing I
Can break down before I do, penciling it into my
Planner, which is a carousel of selfhood, like my
Mindspace playing Clowns Coming In or whatever
The fuck it’s called. The one, the famous one,
I know nothing of the famous ones, I know
Radio static and wrapping paper. I am
Starchy water poured down the drain.