I knew a girl in college who never told anyone
Anything. It wasn't any of their business.
She only looked me in the eyes once.
One time, in all of the years we spent in
The same kitchens, tramping around the same wooden apartment floors,
Sticky with light beer and heavy fingers.
She had been dancing with a man
In the low light of a rural shithole bungalow
House party, his eyes blurry and, at the same time completely transparent.
His hand wandered up her thigh
And under her shirt, his fingers asking and, at the same time demanding.
Immediately she stopped her gyrational motion,
Reached for the beer he had close to his face.
His now inquisitive eyes widened in confusion and he floated it up, up,
Higher, out of her reach.
She finally caught up to it, now directly over his head, and
Squeezed the thin aluminum until it's cheap,
Reduced contents rained down on his scalp.
As he swore and spat, shrinking back
Into the carpeted darkness of the party,
Her eyes found mine from across the room.
I handled it the same way he did.
Tonight I sauteed garlic and basil in olive oil.
They say there are certain populations on Earth
With markedly higher life expectancies than average.
They have little in common besides a
Generous employment of olive oil in their cooking.
Olive oil,
The more dry and puckering the better,
How jealous we all are that something
Which comes in both "virgin" and "extra virgin" are of equal worth.
As long as the flavor lingers on your tongue,
As if it were alive, it's good.
When I reached for the sauce pan,
In order to stir it's contents,
Forgetting it's handle had dawdled idle
Over a second, hotter burner,
It singed my skin.
The organic, protective insulation that
Covered the tips of my thumb and forefinger
Momentarily bellowed in pain,
As did I,
So instantaneous was the blistering.
Later, after the ice cubes had melted in my palm and
The cold water tap had been left to rest,
I inspected the rubbery remains of my appendage.
The fingerprint was so disfigured it
Wouldn't unlock my phone screen anymore.
How ironic that something so perfectly allegorical to myself and
So in keeping with my identity
Had poached that identity away from me.
Maybe when my fingerprint returns,
I'll text the girl I think about most these days.
My lover:
I cover her in kisses and sweet devotion,
Which she shrugs off her shoulders.
That makes her an atheist,
But it makes me an acolyte
And a fool.
