By Chloe Jaques
Sharp lines of guilt
in the den of the summer,
I drag the spoon through the sauce on the stove and it slides its way back in the garlicky wake. And there is no way to never hurt anyone,
I will make wounds with my spoon accidentally.
The shampoo smells like chewed-up flowers, the water is hot and the soap
cannot wash all the chopped-garlic smell from my fingers. These things are both torn apart for their fragrance; I mock them with the way that I smell.
What if I hid in the mountains, and died in the woods? Is there anything to that?
I feel like I could find wild garlic,
and lose it,
and refuse to change it by watching it grow.