Tequila, tajin, the
unsung melody, shot glasses
dropped, the reckless discard,
hey let’s go, you shout
before sprinting
for Mariah, Whitney, Kim, Celine –
you make believers of us all,
nothing agnostic found dancing
among the 1:45 a.m. rapture.
Steamed milk stamps
a heart atop the takeout coffee,
our wobbly feet nearly
reunite with the sidewalk, bell
ring of a front door, ajar, frozen –
you have just borne witness to
some darling little bite, oh we must,
and we will, born again through
the marriage of ginger and
cinnamon.
Stovetop, your mom’s sauce
sprays abstract art across
the drywall, neckbone
waiting like a bay leaf,
you stir dutifully in a
Lucille Ball wig, bowls
stacked, ready, we can be sure
this meal will be served Bohemian,
gay boys on fire escapes, across
the rug, burrowed into
couch corners, Sunday
communion, bodies whole,
blood warmed.
Heirloom china shares its
quarters with plasticware,
fine spices beside the
Doritos, someone might
make the mistake of deciding
nothing is sacred to you,
glitter and rouge, chest hair
and the crunch of uncooked
pasta, but everything
is sacred, every damn
darling little bite.
michael king 