Poetry: I fell in love with a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant by Saturn Browne
I was sixteen and in California, the air heavy
with the scent of lust and pasta. It was not
a good choice for me. Allergic to Tomatoes. But
wasn’t life full of bad choices anyways? My love
in itself was dangerous—chasing after a 19 year old man
whose white hands were stained red and Green
from soap and 99 cent tomato sauce. Even his hands
screamed I am a real Italian. Every time we touched,
his hands stung my neck. my back. places not quite ready
—I was not yet ripe for the taking. Though to him,
greenery was pretty. And it was all I wanted: a chance
to escape from dirtiness and be clean again and again.
One time, after we kissed on top of the sink, he handed me
dishes and taught me how to wash their insides. My legs
hanging over the drain, he taught me how to clean myself
away from pasta water and my Un-Italian filth.
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