Weird Wednesday Love Poem

Does it need more salt?

“Does it need more salt?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Because you’re the one with the

fucking book!”

Andy acknowledges

the 

entirely

reasonable

nature

of that statement

with a purse of her 

pretty, pink lips.

“No,” she settles on,

flipping through a few pages.

“I think we have enough salt.”

The sound of the pot boiling is loud

in the silence.

Until Andy says,

“We might have fucked up

on the broth though.”

“What?”

We 

cannot

get this

wrong.

“What do you mean, 

‘We might have fucked up

on the broth?’ ”

“Was supposed to be the blood

of a virgin.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Someone who didn’t

do that.”

“This isn’t funny!”

If we 

get this

wrong

She might come back.

We don’t have time to start over,

so we just have to hope a broth

made with the blood of 

“an almost-virgin” 

Andy relays, after checking 

with our donor…

We have to hope

that’s good enough.

We have to hope

I am good enough.

At this at least,

if none of the rest of it.

Like,

Loving her.

Like,

Leaving her.

Like,

Decapitating

her 

resurrected

corpse.

We pour the potion

on the fresh-dug grave

and wait.