Threading—myself   from the   fate—of—you

It tasted like death, finding you.
It tasted like death, by soy sauce — stovetop perspiration — aluminum silence — this finding you, again.
This time, it is downtown. You've been marked, strewn
aside in the home-aisle of a dingy thrift with purple floors.
Salt would not recognize you, but I do. I

know you. Your caveats, my prayer —

your lust and luster, my protection
from the fire. When I pressed my palm to you, I remembered
again, death, the green
linoleum of the kitchen — then, all the strange
lives we'd share

You — the sunlit corner, and me — a cat.
You — the rice, and me — a porcelain bowl.
You — the knife, and me — a fish, unscaled.

So I pulled myself off of your seat on the dingy purple floor. I walked home and closed my kitchen curtains. I threw away my bag of rice, and fed my cat an unscaled fish. But even then, I am still threaded by the fate of you. And it tastes like streaming salt, this fate — its becoming and unbecoming — like red chili peppers — or scallion deception — or the laughing line — in the corner of your eyes