Splendido Splendente
There wasn’t enough food
for breakfast this morning
so we just fucked
and thought about Italy.
You asked me about the trees
and I said,
“good a trees as any,”
but that was just me
playing it cool.
I put my head
on your cool, empty stomach
and tried to name
every shape of pasta,
tried to imagine
every shape of pasta
filling your mouth.
I like the idea
of you as a tourist,
posing for a photo,
then asking me
40 years after,
“where was this again?”
“Italy, babe,” I’ll say
when we’re old
and full of difficulties.
Salt and Pepper or Salt and Vinegar
Staring at you naked
while eating potato chips
is something I love,
something like finishing a can
of something cheap
then crushing it
against my skull.
I have gored jagged holes
in my cans to scull
and forget faster.
But not for a long time,
not since you.
If people really are etching
illegible sentences into their flesh
with car keys,
because of love,
then shouldn’t we just celebrate.
I would rather us stand
on a hill,
heels below toes,
spilling on our t-shirts
while we chugg,
retch, and bend
to the silver-green grass of spring,
then smile while we roll
backwards toward the future.
