Spring 2021
we made risotto on friday Elle Provolo i’m in the kitchen the proverbial heart of the house encased in a dichotomy of wonder and dread and i’m listening to jazz (soft, like i’m in an elevator trapped in perpetual motion) and my sister is tearing herself apart (piece by piece until she no longer has flesh to hold on to) and i’m thinking about dave grohl (the tonality of his words a foil to the timbre of his music) and the dough is being kneaded (something beautiful from something broken) and peter sagal’s voice can be heard from the living room (wait wait...don’t tell me that my fears have been invited to the table) and onion and garlic marry in a hot pan (my definition of home, a tectonic plate eager to start shifting) and my arms and legs are erratically moving offbeat from the rhythm (i learned how to dance from my father) and i’m in a realm of yearning, an appetite for light (all fires expire into embers)
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