You served regret with a side
of salmon, a slow mistake
that swam upstream in the
throat of a stranger. Eight-tops
wobbled against your balance,
plates teetered like spun promises.
He poked your cheek, his chopstick
smile digging into the marrow.
You don’t stretch nice thin enough
to fit their demands. Yelp says
you ruin weekends. Your apron
a grave of one-star judgments.
Before leaving, a hunger spirals.
You chase it down dim streets,
aching for new holes, for metal
to chew its puckered breath into
your skin. \"Closed,\" the sign says.
Behind glass, a girl wipes
herself away with the mop,
her fluorescent edges humming.
Where next? You speed, frantic,
as though grief can be run
off the road, mistaking its face
for the cook\'s sideways grin
and his story of twisted pleasure,
the perverse bend of need rubbed
raw and seen. In the walk-in, you’d
prayed for this metal silence, alone.