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Stew | Zero Readers

Onions in butter
   bubble alone &
      the kitchen is quiet,
         starved without
            your stirring.
               I’m getting better
            at remembering
         to salt the meat,
      to peel the carrots,
   to pour just one
glass of wine—
   & still
      I make too much,
         undercook the potatoes,
            curdle the cream.
               On my tongue
            a chunk of chuck
         melts to ribbons &
      I lose myself
   in its heavy heat.
Like I said
   I’m getting better
      at forgetting
         the sound of
            your spoon singing
               against your hungry teeth,
               your silent smile
            wrapping itself
      around the warm
   silver bowl, steam
still rising.

Andrew Walker is a writer living in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in HAD, Crack the Spine, Eckleburg, paperplates, Apricity Press and elsewhere. He reads poetry for No Contact and pleasure.