Caprese Sandwiches, Bile and Brine

I’m hacking at your sandwich. My coordination’s nowhere close to what it could’ve been if three or four hours hadn’t past, where I’d have cut with raw edge sharpening; at misalignment, I’d even you out. I’d even you out, lay you nice and flat and massage all that dead air outta you, I’d use the light dimmer and whisper with my lips that you’d best lie nice and still for a while, I’d use a humidifier and all, you’d best close your eyes now. I’d say it all real nice, and slow for your little clam brain, and with assurance because you prefer to feel littler than I with little cotton eyelashes that coat my cheeks, because you can’t sit up without leaning into a breast and your mouth in its permanent O, o, oh God, you’ll sleep for years without me and wake up wet with spit, throwing yourself over the edge of our bed, my bed, yours, to cooler hardwood and women and seasons. I hard boil the eggs and butter the bread, I pepper the tomato slices and fill the bowl with ice. I glaze over with the chives, I graze over my finger, I bleed into the sink and use those onions, anyhow. The distractive bits I use, the words I say to fill space between those which you can’t hear, the garnishes for my lunch and the leftovers you reap, pile up neatly like folded linens — have you ever rapped at a closet door? Next week, we’ll eat Caprese sandwiches with no pickles, no olives, no capers, no brine, because I’ve just finally learned what is and what isn’t, No, there’s plenty of tomatoes for at least two.

art;

Female Nude on Kitchen Stool (unpublished seventh state)

Georg Baselitz, 1979

Linoleum cut (220 x 158 cm)

https://www.moma.org/collection/works/60815