N. Ian McCarthy
In the lay night hours that buffer the first glare from all the stuttering Plexiglas, I entreat the thin scab of sleep, in sympathy, to crochet a scarf for the soul of a bruised liver—here, puffed out like a bean. In my brisk slurping of the confections, cake frosted entremets to the venom of a stillborn, ubiquitous debate, I have eaten too much. I ate too much. Last night. But I also, for luck, spread a wrinkled skin of cellophane over your dead grandmother's flat Willow dish for leftovers. When the auld dome glows like a hot wire and I have raked my mouth with soap and scissor blades, could you set out the sporks and two ounces each of bile in the good chilled apéritif glasses?