In the Kitchen with Merope

I once made a man see stars, read the state of his synthetic, wrinkled suit back to him, I watched as it melted. Served him the world on a mirror— Cracker Barrel plate of desire, he said. It was just crispy bacon with sides of himself, I didn’t even mention I was a constellation. He called it love when I gave him the check, named his myth, grown boy’s story common as milk teeth on breakfast meat. In the end, I held his face and called him broken, lonely, afraid, tired of being too much and too little, gave him his change. They’re all broken and lonely, like dropped eggs are useful breakfast in the right setting; murdered bird in another. Sometimes, they’ll marry you— just for discretion, if you’re good at it. Even Sisyphus took a wife, perhaps anticipating base needs at seventh inning stretches, fifth amendment opportunities in front of elders. It’s the same eternal story. When the tally’s off, or the ham has unspiraled it’s best to shoot straight into the chafe, a breast pocket underneath the collar bone, there’s always room to talk in half-truths until you find the trigger that stabs them, right in the detail, see the blood pumping from plate to vein, though it was the sausage that was raw and they ordered the bacon, it’s best to play it safe, and direct attention to the source wound— blame the eggs, stay in the kitchen and live to see the cockerels cosplay as roosters, save the frying pan for another day.