Dinner for Two

 

 

 

at Sunday school

every time you take a bite.

                             I’m dizzy

 

 

of your fork and knife, sparks

brighter than the Hagia Sophia

in the midday light. Coddle me

between your teeth, slow

roasted sacrilege, before the service

ends and we’re seen

in Constantine’s streets, until

                             I’m crumbs

 

 

from your cigarette.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jessica Guzman lives in Tampa and sells cameras at an electronics store. Her work is forthcoming in SHAMPOO.

 

 

brushed off like the ashes flying

from the electricity

I flutter on the wings of calves