I’ve cooked Alexandre into the greens, stir fried
and served on the side. I like spinach
with my quiche, arugula in omelets, kale
in the vegetable mix becoming a scramble
served in a glass bowl to a family.
There’s no family
or lovers at the dinner, I haven’t spoken
to any of them in years; not to Robert,
in St Louis, with a new boyfriend,
they seem happy, and I’m happy, too,
thickly spreading Ryan and Tony, buttery
marriage, left me behind one day with just
a text, onto the toast, fresh salted bagels
and sourdough I sliced myself
with my bread knife, I look at the knives
and think of Gabe, Joseph, boys I wish
I could cut, thinly,
slivered onions, thinly cut
bacon, anything that feels sharpened
and hurt, like I was, so I’m chopping
cabbage for a morning slaw,
so I’m balancing plates
that are all just for me,
two eggs, fried, two potatoes,
shredded, in the skillet, oiled,
and then you, the one I still don’t want
to bake, a frittata filled with goat cheese
and the sundried tomatoes of your wrinkly,
bald head, a smile of Kalamata olives
I put out two plates hoping
you’d come, I whisked and whisked
and poured over the food,
I washed fruit, so many berries,
a kiwi, so ripe, the skin practically
peeling beneath my thumb, I drape
it like a coat over my shoulders to
keep me warm in those winter months
and served on the side. I like spinach
with my quiche, arugula in omelets, kale
in the vegetable mix becoming a scramble
served in a glass bowl to a family.
There’s no family
or lovers at the dinner, I haven’t spoken
to any of them in years; not to Robert,
in St Louis, with a new boyfriend,
they seem happy, and I’m happy, too,
thickly spreading Ryan and Tony, buttery
marriage, left me behind one day with just
a text, onto the toast, fresh salted bagels
and sourdough I sliced myself
with my bread knife, I look at the knives
and think of Gabe, Joseph, boys I wish
I could cut, thinly,
slivered onions, thinly cut
bacon, anything that feels sharpened
and hurt, like I was, so I’m chopping
cabbage for a morning slaw,
so I’m balancing plates
that are all just for me,
two eggs, fried, two potatoes,
shredded, in the skillet, oiled,
and then you, the one I still don’t want
to bake, a frittata filled with goat cheese
and the sundried tomatoes of your wrinkly,
bald head, a smile of Kalamata olives
I put out two plates hoping
you’d come, I whisked and whisked
and poured over the food,
I washed fruit, so many berries,
a kiwi, so ripe, the skin practically
peeling beneath my thumb, I drape
it like a coat over my shoulders to
keep me warm in those winter months
Sam Herschel Wein (he/they) is a Chicago-based poet who specializes in perpetual frolicking. Their second chapbook, GESUNDHEIT!, a collaboration with Chen Chen, was part of the 2019-2020 Glass Poetry Press Series. He co-founded and edits Underblong. Recent work can be found in Moon City Review, Sundog Lit, and Bat City Review, among others. See what they’re up to at samherschelwein.com.