Stanley Tucci Is in Sardinia and I鈥檓 on Your Sofa
by Kara Lewis
watching as he stretches a goat鈥檚 stomach  
                        over a clothesline. Stanley Tucci is making illegal cheese  
in Chelsea boots and slim-fit jeans, an unlikely culinary criminal.  
                        I envision you outrunning sirens  
in seventies corduroys, a cleaver nestled in your back pocket.  
                        Each flared ankle jeopardizing your exit. I would break the law  
to taste you. But when cheese ferments, we鈥檒l be a dead language. A rind
                        incised by bite marks. Stanley Tucci is blowing into a reed  
glued with beeswax. I ask you if you ever played an instrument  
                        and put your stinging chapstick on my lips in secret.  
Stanley Tucci calls wine full-throated, swirls it  
                        in a long-stemmed glass the way I swish mouthwash before spitting  
into your sink. I will never know if Stanley Tucci gets cavities.  
                        I鈥檓 not supposed to know your last name, its curly font  
across your mailbox. It sounds like an oblong pasta, just like Stanley Tucci鈥檚.  
                        Just like Stanley Tucci, you are bald and gleaming.  
I Googled, Do bald men get a lot of likes on Hinge and imagined  
                        other hands sliding down your scalp. A headline reads, Stanley Tucci is sexy  
and we need to talk about it now! I wanted to talk to you  
                        about when your hair started falling out. When you stood in the mirror  
with whirring clippers and decided to cross over. You told me  
                        your friends kept getting married and you lingered in the background  
like a character actor. You gave toasts on cue in exaggerated accents.  
                        Stanley Tucci is windsurfing and I鈥檓 memorizing the velocity  
of your ceiling blades. Mornings I stand barefoot on your cushions to dust them.
                        Stanley Tucci does chores promptly and is always polite. I left my Spanx  
in your duvet and you called them bike shorts.  
                        You held them out to me like a souvenir.
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