What else? Ven aquí; let’s have it out. Mira, a little hole in the salmon filet, small enough for a
doll’s shoe, a justification of your behavior, or perhaps some red chili. An overabundance of salt,
tambíen la otra mujer I’ve been hiding in a box beneath my bed, I take her out when you’re
asleep and whisper your secrets to her. You think what we went through was pivotal? Try
imagining the unnecessary nature of too much parsley, your foolish, oily blood, your unnecessary
songs about various herbs, I watch you hold lime slices to your eyes, asking if you’re fit for
green makeup. Of the house of fishes and bones and crushes, you know nothing. At least I’m
good in bed, a spring onion, a mess, a god, a glass of wine. You tell me you care about me while
placing your leg between someone else’s feet. You rip the cloth, messy blanket magic trick, from
the table to reveal someone has carved a face in the wood. It is your mother’s face but with your
aunt’s mouth. Do you want to know what I think? Hazlo, esa cosa que me gusta. Now we’re in it.
Wrist-deep in tomato purée, you tell me you dreamt again of tentacle arms and catfish for thighs,
you were supposed to cook dinner but burnt the bacon, you dreamed I was so very sorry for
disappearing, carajo, pajaro, someone’s daughter has built a collection of small wooden dolls,
she plays with them at the edge of the table, her fingers are coated in butter and now the dolls
are, too. They mutter baby arguments. They mimic our fall-apart. Are you getting it, now? Mi
pequeña corazon, mi personaje, conejo, they trapped my head on the chopping block, put the
butcher’s knife in my arms. The thing is, I care so deeply about the cypress. These are my
permanent surfaces. You don’t understand lakes, rivers, wetlands. I watch to grasp at love, yet
you barely make it out of the kitchen alive.