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