(First published in the 2013 Spring edition of Off the Coast Journal)
Among all the other things, it was the way you told me, “our leftover Korean”
and then plans became suddenly parallel and unfuddled.
It was the way you promised you wouldn’t be a chapter in a book,
a rhetorical question, the postscript of lilies on a grave. Our leftover Korean,
sitting cold like a block in the refrigerator while we got drunk over red wine
and graze at the squishy couch cushions, the fan whirring in the smoky air over
us. It’s poetic, believing we’ll ever amount to something, to anything. It’s gallant.
It smothers your skin tonight, clings to my neck when you bite me. You
swore you wouldn’t be a chapter in a book but I can only promise you
a dedication page, a name in a catalog, a full-page obituary. So let’s go downstairs
and make some cocktails and heat up that bibimbap and you can kiss me
caramel and bruised and bite my tongue for me and I promise, I will forget this forever.