I tell the man I like that his favorite
pasta shape looks like Klimt’s The Kiss.
He says he must make me his famous
bolognese and, soon after, he flies to town
and appears at my door. He has bought
the ingredients at the expensive
Italian specialty store, even the celery.
In my linoleum kitchen, the knife flashes
in the sallow light. Rich smells waft;
wooden spoons come at my mouth,
steaming. I boil The Kiss pasta. He piles
it in chipped shallow bowls. I open
the red wine I couldn’t afford. He pours
it, generously. We eat on the black couch
with our legs tangled up. When we finish,
we leave the bowls to clean up later,
afterwards, lips swollen.
When he leaves, I go to a new
gynecologist. I am ushered into a sterile
and fluorescent room. I am told to change
into a pink paper gown. I strip and prop
myself on the crunching exam table. I
cross my ankles, swing my feet. I feel
my heart rate elevate, like it always does,
waiting to be seen. To the side, I notice
the only art on the walls is The Kiss…
I never really had you, did I? The painting
is hung up the wrong way, parallel
to the floor, the flowers once underfoot
now climbing, disoriented.
Born and raised along the Mississippi River, Kate Welsh lives in Brooklyn, NY. She holds a BA from Barnard College and an MFA from the Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, where she was the Rona Jaffe Graduate Fellow in 2021. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and her poems can be found in Ninth Letter, Grist, Variant Lit, Arts & Letters, and other publications. She is the co-founder/co-editor of The Swannanoa Review. www.kate-welsh.com
