Blowfish

So you’re not the only one on the menu.
Losing your shit afterhours in a Chinese
restaurant, sometimes it takes that
choice of fork vs. chopsticks, a fistful
of tea leaves to read that this is love

on the table and not just fun with orange
slices. A tiny slip of paper reading Big
Things Are Possible, but this morning it
looks like you should be hung up by your
tiny fins in a window off Canal. Face

swollen, a delicacy that will captivate but
may never encourage one to partake; hard
to believe a prickly defense might entice a
passerby to kiss sweet and toxic saltwater
lips, to do anything but keep on walking.