My favourite dish ruined by silence,
the kind that echoes and rattles
across the table until the anxiety
crawls up your neck and strangles you of all compassion.
Empty pan that smells of a giddiness on Las Ramblas
long since forgotton.
I look at the open mussel shells and understand how it must feel
to have someone consume what's inside and then leave you to rot.
How to be full again? I ask the Rioja
'Drink me dry, get up and leave'