Last night my m(the slope of a line)other
gave me stuffed peppers, filled with alligator skin
and Tabasco, pulpy guts of summer squash
spilling refuse onto the plate; I bite into the
giving heart of it all the same way
a woman bears her first child
                            fiercely

and let the butter and sauce dribble over
the ledge of my lips down the space
of my breast and into the universal
concave of my belly
(I taste her love, your fear,
and oregano.)

During dinner I listened to
my brother expound on the qualities
of his new lover, a 14 year old
with long giraffe legs that carry her
away from him and back in sweeping
arcs.
My sister muttered into the french
bread that she asked out a boy
through that oh so addicting technology
but hasn't yet received a response.
I use my telepathy to tell them what
reflections they are.

The chair squeaks angry, my feet slap
it silent.

His gun is sold, his day was terrible,
her day was long and trying, the peppers
are hot and carnivorous voodoo.
I'm tasting the tips of rice, salt from
his back that I secretly think looks like alabaster
but would never tell him because such
hard rock is too feminine, ground muscle,
celery and onion.

I'm tasting the knives
and pans, the soap that
my mother says looks like jizz
and I say looks like bits of cuttlefish flesh.

I'm tasting my family and angry
words -sweet plum juice- runaway
fathers and gold teeth.

We stood on the
back patio, watching sunlight filter dirty
from the Japanese maple. I said it looked
like bone and gold dust. She said
it was Sarah Palin's conscience. We laughed
and I told her that I wish I was the Smithsonian.

You are still a ghost sitting
bird-like
on the retro bar stool, smoke swirling
in geometric anomalies from your
invisible joint that you sometime
take in deep drags like
a tearful hooker takes deep breaths in the
bathroom while she's freshening up.

Full stomachs and churning minds
we lay in bed, staring at the patters left by
spiders on the ceiling and I turn onto my
infinite convex belly that may one day hold
a child or a tumor to tell you
that you ought to learn to make
my m other's southern style
stuffed peppers.

Your voice
drifts, floater in the marina, and
through the cracks of miles and
time you say yeah, maybe next time.