Pasta Night

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.