We Never Speak of Such Things

He reaches for your frown, tries to kiss
those lips, lime and sauerkraut.
You tug your head away, disgusted
at your own taste. He's still here
gathering shoestring potatoes
all the things you hate to eat.
He presents them to you, golden fried
a masterpiece of oil browned.
You do not politely nibble at the ends
nod your head in false amiability.
You pick them up in handfuls
throw them across the room.
He cut off a piece of his nose
for you, made the bump disappear.
He screwed his marrow on straight
tried to lure you back with skin.
Perhaps every time you look at him
his child is scraped out of you
again.

by E. M. Soos