Nonfiction | Edible


(a poem of delicious pain)

         Ghost sauce, Brussels sprouts

         and leftover kale salad

         traffic on the expressway

         sings traffic songs

         all my life I’ve loved

         to walk down dark alleys.

         Second verse, red wine

         and water make the fire worse

         better just feel it

         a cherry burst

         because superhots

         ripple the electric spine.

         Final phrase, it looks

         like blood on a paper towel

         soon the cool night

         on your neck.

         Read Lucas’s essay on his hot sauce obsession, “Superhot.”