9116, Weekly Meal Plan (2 poems)

9116

I tossed the string of spaghetti from palm to palm

until it was cool enough to chew.

He always called me over

for a taste test

while she always

told me to rest.

Bless

that house

trapped in amber,

lapped in love.

WEEKLY MEAL PLAN

There’s raw garlic under my nails.

Nobody cares.

The food is burning in the other room,

but we’re all consumed,

full bloom,

sonic boom,

too soon.

I croon,

you swoon.

Dinner is doomed