Because the distance between her mildewing passion
and his clichéd professions
was too great
she boiled the meat.
She took a dull, overused
blade and pried out her sinewy flesh.
Dropped it in the pot
of water and swirled it with a wooden spoon,
watching the muscle clench inward and then out
as it tenderized,
she didn’t think about the words but the stupidity of words
when bodies and actions speak enough. Her body said
come near me, take me deeply, little things said
I adore you. Are you here to stay?
His body said omigodiloveyou
but he said I don’t like traveling.
It was surprisingly easy
to throw the meat into the pot,
but would it taste good, would
her dog eat it?