I eat books of poetry for dinner,
and you are on the couch next to me.
I know we are here, but what do we call this?
I think the word is home, but it
sometimes feels like a serrated knife.
sometimes, it feels like we’re holding hands
in our sleep. There is a book of words like home
in my hands: it is full of empty driveways and watering cans,
and dancing under the moon,
I eat the words, but starve on the feast.
I would have broken you like granite; placed you
like a kitchen counter. You were never meant to be the cutting board.
You are the knife. I do not play with these domestic things.
Come sit at the table next to me, darling.