I'll add chicken to yours if you like, but I will have mine plain.
Just melted cheese, like the liquid golden sun
that would warm my back, crisping the sand
soft and grainy as tortillas, as the memory of rippling water
while my clothes dripped dry in the radiating coolness
of the thick stone walls around the stove
where she made us quesadillas.
Kenny: a sonnet from Ordinary Saints
23 hours ago