—after Günter Grass


in the kitchen, after fighting, this is how I kiss you:
open mouthed, wet as a fish
humming breath instead of singing
tongue, dumpling soft
shape the bitterness round against the roof of your mouth
until it crumbles like sweet shortbread
bite your lips
harder,
stiff as bone beneath the skin
breasts firm and lean as cooked meat
lips teeth tip of the tongue
threads of saliva, glossing over an apology
passed between us, from your lips to mine

Tough as a skirt steak,
chewed over a hundred times
run through the grinder, how practical our teeth
this kiss is ravenous.

Travel these things under incisors, molars, canines:
flakes of fish
olives with their pits intact
Brazil nuts, brown-skinned and bitter
pomegranate seeds
stone fruits: peaches, plums
barley bread
all of it awash in wine

pink peppercorns milled over a rope of mozzarella
sour, sweet, piquant, tart: shared in my kiss.

You, laid out on the bed,
despondent and weak:
feverish with jealousy.
Me: washing up, eaten alive
by the thoughts in my head.
Brought back to life by a platter of amuse-bouche,
again and again: each taste a kiss—
never will you feel hunger;
never will anything bland find your tastebuds.

Again and again, you bring me answers, disguised as groceries:
scrambled eggs, rice pudding,
bacon cooked crisp and crumbled into creamy grits.

Once, we shared a smoked mullet,
the whole fish, picked apart and licked off our fingertips,
all the way down to a clean spine,
skin folded out like a sheet of satin.

Once, we shared a roast chicken,
standing over the sink, gnawing the meat of
drumsticks and wings down to ivory spokes.

Again and again, we kissed each other,
a bowl of barbecued beans, chilled from the fridge,
over buttered toast:
always after the same old fight, fried in the pan,
crisp as lace on the edges of corned beef hash

In those days, when you washed your memories and miseries
down in a purple river of cheap wine,
staining those lips, sweet and plump as Georgia peaches—
we had make-up sex on the kitchen floor,
vinegar and brined, bread-and-butter pickles,
pepperoncini, capers—
we shared all of it, until our lips puckered and burned from the salt.

In another life, I was your cook, and you were an alcoholic:
I kissed your mouth, soft as a pastry,
and tucked a slice of bread in your pocket
in the hope that you’d leave behind crumbs
to guide you back home to me.