we eat it with spoons,
one slice to cut in half,
one spoon to share between us.
you warned me eating too many would
irritate the inside of my mouth, make my
eyes water. i asked you why you bought the six-pack
if you didn't expect me to eat them all in one sitting.
i tried to impress you by
taking it back, no sweet lingering
on my tongue after finishing the cup, but a ring of
grounds that make their way around the
filter. i thought you would approve,
but then i watched you pour the creamer
until your coffee matched my skin.
you made breakfast food after the sun went down,
plates full, overflowing with grease and meat.
you piled the eggshells back in the container,
left them on the counter, and spooned salsa
on top of the eggs. i tried to
say no, say i didn't like
spicy foods, but you insisted,
and i had seconds.
your dog has bad hips, i can hear her
wheeze and whine her way up the stairs,
limping up every other stair and you think
ibuprofen hidden in a spoonful of peanut butter helps,
but i don't know if human medicine
works for animals.
we had a habit of buying a fifth and
slurping the bottle down over late-night reruns,
waiting until it was empty to spit fire
and scream through the thin walls, punching the
rented doors and passing out in separate beds. we could
never remember what was wrong when we woke up,
what had happened,
why the bottle was empty.
we felt like adults, planning meals
and matching wines with pasta sauces, but i was always happier
when we would buy half-price stir-fry
with frozen sauce ad
split it into overflowing portions and wash it down
with off-brand soda, flat with no bubbles.
i can't help it if i
don't like steak sauce, can't find enough
flavor in steak seasoning, if i
have to have ketchup with my steak.
there are rolls in multiple rooms, one in the
bathroom for basic human needs,
one in the living room for
sick days spent with snot and stolen cable,
and two in the bedroom. one for post-sex
clean up and one for when we
hate to cry.
i write lists for you, you dictate
your problems and worries and
wishes for our future, and i write them down,
self-conscious about my handwriting,
even when i know nothing will go
according to plan.
sort of a play-off on bones&ash