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.