by Dorsía Smith Silva
Who would say no to this?
It’s damn good. Hemispheres
of peppercorn-crusted brined
ham, Gruyère, mizuna, cinnamon
pickles, Dijon and aioli on rustic
spelt sourdough. I do what every good
lover should do: I hand-feed you like
a fish until your cheeks balloon against
my breasts. You chew until your teeth
blur argyle yellow and green in danger of
dropping Cm(H2O)n. It makes me think whether
I should have paid $7.99 for those linen napkins
and defrosted something for dessert. I don’t know,
maybe a cake with a whiff of your pet name in Lucinda
handwriting. It could be oxymorons with voices on paper or
copyrighted epiphanies in a deli. Whatever it is, I already feel twenty
pounds lighter. Now, if only the plate holds and you swish and swallow.