Linguini

{Image to come:}

I excite when my fork goes through

noodles, a few sliding up in between.

Against tension I twist. Sauces flick to my wrist

'round the prongs, off a ball of linguini.

At the push of my tongue, it squirts

clam juice–with lemon and pepper notes—while

out the press of my teeth, semolina strands leak

scent of wheat fields. Lord, makes me smile

to eat down a plate of linguini, then

to soak a white dinner roll gray

in its oils: the olives and shellfish and sweat

from that little bald chef singing over the steam,

“Ho sputato nel piatto oggi!”