After the Pulse Orlando Shooting, My Wife Asks if We Can Eat at Chick-fil-A

Poetry from NER 38.3 (2017)
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We don’t know yet each name for each body,

but know precisely two: one shooter, one friend-

of-friends, an old tie from your old life

and my old life, before it was our one life—

Look, look at our lives. Who would not cry

at the messes we make? Which we are we, right now;

which we do I feel most part of? We love to hate

somebody. And you, love, you love Chick-fil-A,

the warmth of every employee inside, and the warmth

of a waffle fry against your hungry tongue. No matter

if hate harbors deep inside, or high above in the command chain,

you feel the love all the same when you walk in

to that holy franchise of Jesus and fried chicken.

But me, I love the love we made

while a man strapped two guns to his body. The taste

of crispy duck, bite of bitter grapefruit, fragrance

of celebration. The clinking of our glasses:

Happy anniversary, baby. Not knowing, not needing

to know yet that it was happening, that by the time

it was starting, we were nestled in, repeating our mantras:

lucky, lucky. There is so much I cannot fathom.

No, I cannot imagine what it would be, to raise the gun,

gaze down the barrel, aim to kill everyone in sight.

So when you ask me, love, if perhaps today is one of those

when I can overlook the burn and raze, the rumble

in my belly, let love for you win out—

Aren’t we hungry, always? Our tongues inside

each other’s citrus depths, our own sweet joy a fleeting glaze

over the ash that coats my ravenous throat.