Miss crisp whisperer you just whisked burden
out from the cracks and corners a soap and sud
with which to let the dirt drop from under my
nails. If I’m too soon to ask you to be god
at least let me think you a Beatrice,
and let god be the carriage or wheel before
we’re hauled, escalator-up, for dinner.
Before we eat you mention the sun
and the progress of my cooking body and yours.
I am less than umami to the universe, you say.
You open the leaflets of a bacon sandwich and
we recite Rich poems because we don’t pray
but our throats compel us to resignify the food.
I prick my dinosaur teeth into the crust and they
stay there when I pull my head back a piece
of what’s coming, I say. You wince at the fossil.
The Romans made concrete with volcano ash
and seawater. In the Colosseum pillars there are ruined
homes and remnants of the Mediterranean.
We both turn to the wall instinctively. You can’t
move a kitchen wall when the beams are load-
bearing . You can put up anything in a museum if you
found it fair and square. We finish the last of the bacon
and you put my teeth in front of the books on the shelf
where we’ve Dewy Decimaled the fiction in the face
of vainness and punctuated endings.
M. Wright is an educator and poet living with his wife, Dylan, in
Minnesota. He is the author of a boy named jane (Bottlecap Press, 2017) and his poems have recently appeared in The Penn Review, Saint Paul Almanac, Glass Poetry, UCity Review, Wildness, and Jet Fuel Review. More: wrightm.com