At 6:30 am
there are three men in my kitchen
discussing divorce
like it’s a regional weather condition.
One is smoking out the window
in underwear and one sock.
One keeps saying
“No, but fundamentally…”
which is how intellectual men announce
they are about to say something emotionally catastrophic.
The dishwasher hums like depression with good manners.
I am making eggs for people
I will never see again.
This is apparently one of my spiritual gifts.
Outside, Belgrade is wet and shining.
A tram drags itself through the morning
like somebody returning from bad decisions
with excellent cheekbones.
My mother would have fed all of them.
This is how grief survives in the body:
not as sadness exactly,
but as overfeeding strangers.
One man touches my shoulder
while reaching for salt
and I nearly fall in love immediately,
like an idiot raised on poetry and emotional neglect.
He has construction worker hands.
The kind that make you think:
yes, this man could assemble furniture
and stabilize my nervous system.
Instead he says:
“Your kitchen feels safe.”
Which is, unfortunately,
the hottest thing anyone has said to me this year.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 7:32 AM UTC
At 6:30 am
there are three men in my kitchen
discussing divorce
like it’s a regional weather condition.
One is smoking out the window
in underwear and one sock.
One keeps saying
“No, but fundamentally…”
which is how intellectual men announce
they are about to say something emotionally catastrophic.
The dishwasher hums like depression with good manners.
I am making eggs for people
I will never see again.
This is apparently one of my spiritual gifts.
Outside, Belgrade is wet and shining.
A tram drags itself through the morning
like somebody returning from bad decisions
with excellent cheekbones.
My mother would have fed all of them.
This is how grief survives in the body:
not as sadness exactly,
but as overfeeding strangers.
One man touches my shoulder
while reaching for salt
and I nearly fall in love immediately,
like an idiot raised on poetry and emotional neglect.
He has construction worker hands.
The kind that make you think:
yes, this man could assemble furniture
and stabilize my nervous system.
Instead he says:
“Your kitchen feels safe.”
Which is, unfortunately,
the hottest thing anyone has said to me this year.
Apparently feeding emotionally damaged men eggs is one of my core competencies.
