Lasagne

by Paula Turcotte

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The recipe demands
a wooden spoon to mix
the cheese but I ignore it
and squelch ricotta
through my fingers. If I do this
I can push my therapy appointment
one more week. One more week
after this week which was also
one more week. 
My therapist emails and says
where are you, says you can’t
keep doing this. If you don’t know how
to tell someone you love them
I recommend dairy products.
I recommend crying
in a steam shower. I recommend
sex in the morning, in the lineated
rays of your blinds.
I am not an expert.
I fold our laundry. I twin
the waistband of your underwear
and think of your thighs,
the fuzz, the way they tuck
so neatly under your butt cheeks.
The cashier at the corner store
says are you sure when we pick
out an orchid so I brag about
your green thumb. We kill it
by the Sunday after,
its one fuchsia bud
withering to grey.
Once when I thought
you were going to leave me
I pulled the Two of Swords:
a falcon and his hood,
the waxing moon. I knot
my own blindfold, an offering.
At the supper table we slice
through layers, steam gassing
our fingers. I watch as you eat,
waiting for it to make me full.

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Paula Turcotte loves her dog, your dog, and Raisin Bran. She lives in Moh'kinstsis (colonially known as Calgary). She is the author of the chapbook Permutations (Baseline Press, 2024) and her recent work can be found in PRISM international, HAD, and CV2. Paula is a poetry editor at MAYDAY.