“Grief is, in a sense, the bill that comes due for love.”
– George Saunders

“What if it has nothing to do with climate change?
What if the coral reefs are meant to gray?”
She says, while angling her fork just shy of a gill.

You are in your potatoes. You are not looking at her face
but her eyes, whose presence her face seems intent
on proving. “I see what you mean.” you say.

“How is the chicken?” She says.
“Fine.” you say. But it isn’t fine.
The chicken is gum.

You think about eggs,
the silo of tuna in your cupboard,
other evident metaphors.

“Are you happy?” you say.
“You mean like now?” she says.
“Sure, we can start here.”

Poetry – Published in Paperbag, 2015

Link to publication