Chorizo and Clouds
This morning’s chorizo blackens,
and these eyelids haven’t even slid open
enough to admonish the date--
In the shower, the milk has soured.
The soap hardens in the cold.
December isn’t too far off.
Fantastically, the steam lifts me
to a world of clouds,
wisps and tatters and heavenly shit,
and I climax enthusiastically with images
of you and a younger version of me
trekking among these clouds,
away from these splintery walls
with holes pushed through,
this hole in the unfinished floor that once
nearly swallowed me and two dogs whole.
At your seat, I’ve arranged a plate.
Orange, now, from the egg.
The corn already has mixed itself in
crisply. A long time ago, you would have
kissed me and smiled that half-curl of the mouth
you’re known for, then,
put your hands up underneath the peel
of my shirt to feel my heart
before you ate. I would have breathed
confessional paragraphs into your neck.
Yes, that was a long-ass time ago,
you’d likely say.