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.
Francesca Tangreti π
In bocca al lupo
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About the Author
Francesca Tangreti is a graduate of Rutgers University, where she won the faculty choice award for essay. When not soliloquizing, she spends time knitting so badly, baking muffins, listening to Leonard Cohen, and so on. She has been published by winnow, Feed, giallo, the Writers House Review, Zeniada magazine, and others.