A Death Among the Dishes


The dying is obvious within the dishes

that have fainted in my kitchen sink.

His gravy is on the melmac.

The bastard!

I made him pot roast with no gristle

and he brought me Gallo

and a yellow rose.


I see him sinking beneath these bubbles

gasping, chest heaving, eyes desperate

like I was desperate.

And then we became impossible

like desert became impossible

like plates and silverware now become

a tribute to the impossibility of us.

Still, they need washing,

stains need wiping clean.

the shards of us last night need picking up.

I plunge my bleeding fingers deep in Joy.