Maybe we should have ordered in


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  
my fingers 
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 
and potatoes. 


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