Almost, But Still Never

a poem

 You let the wine breathe.

I am the name misremembered.
The broccoli between your teeth,
picked out with discreet
jabs of tongue and nail.

Oh him, yes, you say
as at last it pops free
delicately spat into the linen napkin
set beside the fork no one uses.

———

  Why is that fork placed anymore?
  Vestigial reminder of when forks walked like men
  claiming a place earlier reserved for fish.

    My dad took us fishing every Thursday
    to have for Friday supper.
    But there were never enough rods
    and I was the youngest,
    so I built castles on the river bank.

    I hate fish.

    I was audience.
    The one who watches.
    The thirteenth player when
    there are six chosen per side.

    I am the soil
    in your garden
    growing your roses.

    I fed your desires
    allowed the sweet scent
    of blossoms to be.

    But I am not the one picked
    plucked
    brought
    into your home
  except by accident.

    Never displayed in a crystal vase.

  I am what is washed away before
  you sit down with a smile,
  serviette on your lap

break a breadstick

———

Oh him? Oh yes, what was his name?
We went out. Once.
No never.

Pass the vegetables, please dear.

I bet he’d kiss like a fish.

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