Spaghetti-Odes
Sophie Hall

forget to chew before swallowing—that’s how effortless, how solid the dreams of silk, like if-you-believe-it, it-is, like you can drink rust and it will only corrode like home, clanging door hinges between kitchen and garage, your brother on the other side hammering who knows what. the air of silver   turns bronze and brine, the can-opener curls before it cradles can, you brave a sip for only  the idea of tomato sauce—that’s all you grew up on, the way La Croix is flavored by memory or what you trust it to be, home-cooked meal daydreamed in another room and tired trek to the only cleared space in the kitchen, microwave door splatter, cluttered counter, bookshelf squeezing soup cans, apricot text on a green label and meatballs and microwave and hot ceramic to cool down while you pick out the meatballs and remember, when you didn’t finish the can and stuck the leftovers in the fridge and threw it right in the microwave the next day when you woke up in a fog and the rust was hot but the bowl was still cold, you had to switch those o’s into a new one, add cold bowl to clatter-crusted

plates, the only thing not settled to room temperature, like it might never, chipped

glasses and measuring cups

that only

really

held water but when abandoned

to the rest

picked up a little of

everything, textured charcoal with Dad’s

coffee grounds before he headed

out the back door, and yes

you made your mark

too

in oh-so-

many

drips

of

rus

 

Sophie Hall writes creative nonfiction and poetry about collage and clutter, even though she is somewhat of an organized person these days. You can read her work in Jeopardy Magazine, Mawth Magazine, and The Nasiona, among others. Her current favorite flower is the calla lily.

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