Hunger Cleaned the Plates

A feverish “thanks” to my favorite person…

You smelled like the last of the soap: crushed bones and artichoke

hearts, like the clamshell creamy inside of a rubber mask

that doesn’t breath, that collects sweat, that might make me look all

zombified, like this weekend, when I got floored by something

like the flu, and you washed the bowls full of kale-stuffed pasta that

I promised to clean when I could eat — with my tongue, and then with my hands

until the bowls sparkled again — until I got so feverish

it felt impossible to scrub red sauce off your pastel-colored

plates, even out of love, and you went and did it for me.

But I do love you. And I wanted you to know how much I do, even

if this isn’t the most outright confessional poem I’ve ever written,

even if you know it’s as close to brushing by cliche as I’ll go,

even if you know this poem isn’t as true as it could be,

and even if it’s built on a worn- out lurching metaphor like

a zombie-masked madman rambling on and on and on about

my self-referring, somewhat confessional heavy-handedness.

I just wanted you to know that you’re the best person ever,

and you’re the best reason to wake up mask-less, healthy and ready

to eat and eat and eat until our hunger cleans the plates for us.

Like this? You can read my poem, “Impromptu After Looking into My Frozen Pond,” at the link below.