Ribeye
Red veins. Texture like rugae. Like epithelium.
You slap black pepper, olive oil, garlic salt;
meat stifling under Shao-hsing wine & Hoisin
sauce. Birth of umami. Sizzles in my white-
tiled kitchen. Shudder & vapour. Stained mortar,
your wrists pestle. In a Dream Note song, they
say a lover’s absence makes one befriend grief.
We have no shared vocabulary for this. This trans-
literation, this pit. I wake up at dawn with a sinus
headache and my tongue abandons me. I yearn for
your grunt in my ear. I curtain my desperation as
vexation. You interpret it as rage. As accusation.
Yes, you hear me & I think I hear you, too. But the sea-
gulls are screeching & you’re already at the port; you’re
underwater & I’m cursing geography. How gigantic
this need: You mouth, I meat. You with me, within me.
Bar stools grazing. Footsie. Evening walks. Steaming
jasmine rice. Gin cocktail. Mochi & your stir fry.
I want you: smothering, vertebral, hungry.