Brittany Cavallaro
four plates before we had three and the tumbler from Edinburgh I slipped your new tie pin into held the glass above one eye like a dirty fish anyway it was the dish rack wet I pressed my fist to my mouth your hands cut your lips thinned my own feet were bare you said you’re crying like I’d fallen and spilled into little tinsels of gold delighted my mother handing me ceramic foxes salt cellars scalloped plates too small to eat on she saw the basement flat I’d taken alone or that next year some afternoon wet hands and us so poor your red misery eyedropped into every glass of water extravagant like wine I ate I kept my head through rolling heat blood cylindered and sold the summer nothing unfurled from its homes until what was one plate, one cup you eyeing me satisfied a fork pulling at the piece before you is it done is it done %CODE_MORE_INTERVIEWS%