Russ Kesler
Photo: striatic
He wondered what he’d been thinking.
He’d never liked tacos—just steak,
a potato drowning in butter.
He remembered the bright kitchen,
the tablecloth, nubby but clean, his mother’s hand
over his shoulder spooning rice onto the plate.
And the ice cream—it was vanilla—
would have been too sweet by itself.
He watched it melt into slow rivers.
He’s hungry as they pull the straps
across his chest and legs, as someone’s hand
rests for a moment on his forearm.
He’s glad he hasn’t eaten.
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