A poem a day for a year #187

by Amy Turn Sharp


I am suspect of people who think cilantro tastes like soap. I also wonder how much sex the people I know are having each week. Sometimes mid spaghetti bolognese I will ache for a moment far from domestic life. There are devils among us, we all cry. I want to make you throw your head back and laugh like a banjo. I want you to whisper how big this life is, how important it is to throw yourself against each other like planes colliding in midair. I want to see your teeth.