Party

I know we’ve just met and everything
but I’d really like to fall apart on you now.
I’d like to think you’re the kind of person
who’d refill my glass all night, then pour me
shitfaced into your car and take me home with you
so I could regurgitate salmon and triple cream brie
and chocolate strawberries into your toilet,
and then you’d cook me a little something –
I’d like to think you’re the kind of person who cooks –
while I rambled incoherently about my loneliness.
I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe
you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed
and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.
I feel like you own a comforter. I also somehow sense
that your family was extremely dysfunctional
in a way that differs from mine only in surface details,
like which person was the black hole
and which the distant, faint mark in space
that might have been a star. I feel all that.
I feel kind of, I don’t know, like my inner space heater
and TV and washing machine are all going at once.
Do you own a coffee grinder?
I have an ice-cube tray. The last ice disappeared
a few months ago, into the freezer mist.
I miss that ice but once the mist gets hold of it,
it’s gone for good. Unrelenting mist. Many-headed
mist. Who knew mist had undone so many.
I feel like my underwear would fit in your silverware caddy.
It’s just a feeling, though. I could be wrong about that.
Could you get me another drink now?
I think we have chemistry. I really need a lab partner.
Could I just, you know, let my molecules separate
while you keep an eye on the burner? The flame’s kind of fickle.
Here’s hoping it doesn’t go out.