Behind the butcher shop’s fourth wall, when you still don’t know and I still haven’t told you, everyone I confide in knows not only will I kiss you when you have been eating fish, but I will kiss you when you have been eating chicken. I will kiss you if you eat a burger from Wendy’s. I will kiss you after breakfast when you’ve made it sizzle the way you made me sizzle the night I said, “That’s too hard.”
I met you in a storefront with two-by-fours propping up the fronts the lights shine on. The pet store was going in next to the butcher shop. Nobody noticed but you. You caught the shadow of a swinging hammer crossing the jaw of a still-thinking pig, the scents off the street passing his nostrils not unbidden but on summons of still-billowing lungs, ears open because someone forgets to close them even when she’s told him once, she’s told him a hundred times, and he listens better than any number of things, but I will kiss you even if you eat him. If you ate him alive, I’d kiss you with my eyes open.