Spinach Lasagna

by Cassandra Leone





You turn the crank on the pasta machine slowly

with one hand & the other gently cradles the noodle



as it rolls out in a delicate ribbon. Together we lay

them in floured sheets on a dish. They are long & thin



like I am. Like you said of my torso & legs in bed

the night before. Where afterwards I rolled on my side



with relief you could never know the depths of. You

are helping me layer the fresh pasta between bechamel



& tomato & spinach ricotta. We taste each bowl of filling

as we go. I lick my fingers & I think of being long & thin. I



look at your fine hands & imagine the way they’ll cup

my hips later. The apartment fills with the rich smell



of garlic and caramelized parmesan. When it’s done cooking

we let it rest & you kiss my neck in the kitchen. We are



barefoot. Tenderness, I think, is not what I deserve. & I cut

into the lasagna. I put a big helping into a bowl



for you. It steams up the silver of the fork. I cut a sliver

for myself while you sit down at the table. I take a bite



while still standing so you can see I’ve eaten some. Yes,

I eat dinner with practiced deception. That same focused



poise with which you prepared our meal is how

I’ll attenuate. This is not such a big lie, I tell myself. Before bed,



I'll go to the kitchen & eat two almonds & a date. Just

enough to make love to you. To mathematically estimate



the amount of myself that is allowed to have value

in space. Because the best meal is over & over & over



the one that will smell & kiss & run his hands

up my slender body & call me small.





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