How is a poem not like a restaurant review?
Kebab sits in a strip mall. Vietnamese nail joint. Boost Mobile.
Will you publish me? Anyone. Just make the words legible.
They upscaled from import-Persian kitsch, and I mourned.
For sophistication I refined my poem free of gut and love.
Kashk. And mysteries of walnuts, black olive, feta, cream.
I’m blind to the ingredients that make a poem work, or fail.
Then there was a night I dreamed of their red white bean soup.
I have dreamed poems. Words of such precision, delicious.
I note a waiter missing. Should deportation be my first thought?
Publications disappear, rejected by the universe. Autoimmune.