I want to get through to you
while I plier open this can of submerged green beans —
how I wish I could form a clutch around you
like this flexible tin.
My eyes survey the distance between
and the jagged metal at the top,
a movement away from a deep gash,
a slip-up away from a couples emotional, crimson splash.
The beans are just a part of the dinner coming,
dining over fallen bird —
much more pain than we can digest.
We eat the scorn and biscuits in unison,
the only thing we do well together.
I burn up inside like the microwaved leftovers
had days after the initial arrangement,
a constant argument,
too acidic to neutralize with pleasantries