More than mitigated, the smell of her stinky sock cheese subsides as
the poupon nips at my tongue

I made a dorky sandwich, you said,
when I pulled out the pickle relish.

then I peel off the crust
and make the world turn awry.
I eat each torn piece with an appropriate bite
and find-- this balance.

My hair is so less disheveled than you say, Deb,
and we don’t have to fight about it.

We could fight about the little things instead,
little things like words

words that wouldn’t exist without us
that die when we don’t remind each other

The words, Deb that sat in the room while everyone stared
The words that boil in the mush pot
the words that simmer in the middle of circles
(with women reaching child’s posed and prostrated, their fingers spirited forward)
The words bleed a calculating science that we can never see and
breath a drum beat that remains somehow undefined

yes,
I’m glad we don’t talk about the little things,
I’m glad to feel my tongue being bitten by mustard seeds and bees.

06/21/2006

Posted on 06/21/2006
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