By D. A. Powell
—for Matthew
There is no real cure
for love, but there is
a dry rub. Honey, I
can fix you anything
on a hotplate, just like
Martha, when she was
in prison: Ruffles from
a vending machine
transformed into hash
browns. Tho I can’t push
that purple tongue back
into the corpse flower
known as “Voodoo Lily”
and keep it from smelling
like flesh gone piecemeal
to the blowflies, I can
dredge you up a mess of
trout for breakfast but
only if you don’t go off
and die in Marseilles as
you say you must do
each time, shouting it
like the answer in Final
Jeopardy and you bet it
all, everything you never
had is all on the line. I
can’t go with you to
Marseilles but I can put
on a makeshift apron
and fix you a waffle.
