by Lara Dolphin
brutish, hungry, unsuspecting
you helicopter from your superyacht
in Marina di Carrara to my quarter
we talk of scorched fields and bombed buildings
while I prepare the meal
twisting cords of dough beneath my palms
otto e mezzo plays in the parlor
the table is set, the meal is ready–
a bottle of wine to chug
as you shovel forkfuls of pasta
thickly sauced with shavings of Parmesan
followed by salad drenched in balsamic vinegar–
vapor lock, spasm of the airway
I hope you choke
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