Repetitious breaths. Uneasy breathing.
That’s all you talk about,
he says as he coils spaghetti
around the twirling fork. Sauce splatters.
White shirt. Beside a bone button another
hemoptysis-red stain.
Steam rises from the pasta mound,
the sauce pit, and snakes over the candle,
over its flicker, over the wrist shadow
falling fetal at the plate’s hemorrhaging edge.
He swallows then blows on another forkful
till it cools, till his glasses fog up.
Your breathing dream,
he says as he peers over the framed condensation,
then coughs, shuffles, banging a leg.
Tines grind the china. The table trembles.
He continues. There must be more to it.
