Lunch

"Love is reciprocal torment." -Proust

There is no lunch where we
can never plunge our forks into
hearts, slap the cutlet of chicken
across faces, splash a juice on
fabrics and spill noodles. Not
accidents surely- but rekindling
fires can be messy.

This is the quiet ostentation
of an affair gone awry- a scandal
brewing in a teacup hollering. We
cannot sequester ourselves
to hide such mutuality- no
isolate corner to conceal. Break
Break Break. I would rather
drink ink.

Maybe we should stay stranger
to our familiar sense- away
on paradise with our coterie and
oblivious to the passing by
of us. The slight brushing past
can do without a greeting
or two.

Nevermind about lunch. For
we might be proffering poisoned
apples, sneaking it unto the plates
across the table and hope it slides
down the throat. And I won't bother
to kiss you awake later.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 1:06 am