Where Guy Fieri Once Stood

Horchata too sweet reminds me of driving, 

which most things do, when they remind me of home. 

We sit outside slapping mosquitoes 

and gossiping, little vicious summer barbs.

What do you think about them 

opening their marriage? Well you never know 

what goes on inside a relationship. So true. 

We should be drinking beer. My name burbles 

over the loudspeaker and I trip inside 

over the tall threshold. Mesh metal everywhere, 

screen doors, savory perfume wafting from the kitchen 

where Guy Fieri once stood, his signature overwhelming the wall. 

I regret not ordering elote, daydream about cotija cheese

and blackened corn getting stuck in my teeth. 

In my fantasies, you tell me gently, without teasing,

as if plucking a spider from my hair unharmed. Tender

love, wolf down sweet potato tacos with me forever, 

tomatillo salsa and lime juice sparkling in our mouths,

Staining your white shirt. I would buy you a red Camaro

if I could. Marriage is not always easy, 

but sometimes there is this. 

Anna Press is an earnest, queer, vegetarian writer and educator happily transplanted from Los Angeles, CA to Brooklyn, NY, where she lives with her husband and three insane dachshunds. She writes fiction, poetry, personal essays, and book reviews. Talk to her on Twitter @annaepress

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