Like where you touch a door knob and then wipe your eye and two days later you have a scratchy throat? Or a restaurant patron
seeing Baked Alaska at another table flaunt its frosted heat, tender cake under cold fruity creaminess and fluffy mountains of meringue. You’ve heard of it.
You’re born that way. Either liking women or men or both and in-between. Or neither. Or not knowing or at least not knowing yet. Or wanting to know. Or not.
Watch the person move their spoon into the mound.
The Romans. Look what happened to them.
Mike Pence calls his wife “mother.”
Hear a faint smack of lips.
Their daughter wrote a story about a rabbit based on Marlon Brando.
If we’re talking animals, recall the two male penguins who raised an orphan chick. Or
the half female-half male cardinal. You could see the split.
That’s genetic. Abominations, etc. Can we blame
Augustine who thought he could live without a body and wanted everyone else
to do the same.
Yada, yada, yada. Which means “knew” in Hebrew. Or to show mercy.
Each of us has things we must turn away from. Look
but don’t touch. Think but don’t act. Don’t think too hard, actually. Feel.
No, don’t feel.
The whole room orders the flaming thing.
Why were you in the restaurant in the first place. Because you weren’t really hungry,