Fifteen Months and I’m Still Not Over It
by Nicole Chvatal
I tuck a napkin under my chin
and wear the memory of you
like a shield against my heart,
hold a table to my chest to ward off
this lioness of grief.
Dinner alone—a banquet
if I spin it—convinced
I’m cool enough
to the touch, microwave safe
when nuked two to four minutes.
Grief disguised in split peas
but inside it’s clear as consommé,
broth lukewarm, sometimes leaks.
Top shelf tears count as currencies
of salt, self-worth in beans.
The only thing that keeps me
out of debt is being in
a little bit of debt.