“Dinner Prep,” “Mythos” and “Ignorance”

“Dinner Prep,” “Mythos” and “Ignorance”

“Dinner Prep,” “Mythos” and “Ignorance”

Dinner Prep

Away from myself, always, the blade angles

to save – dulls itself to keep, the hands wanting

to preserve even as the soul soils. I crave the bone,

the meat the only thing hunger simmers under,

simmers for, for loneliness the gnaw (the echo

died, do you even beat) of never being touched.

Eat around the nerves, those live thrumming

guitar strings, melodies made for another.

Carnivorous, my blood pulling back before pushing

onto the shore some twisted, scaly something dying

of sunshine and air. For you I would have done this:

lived: plucked a ripe tomato from the vine, a dash of salt.

Tilled the earth, pocketing blooms, mothered – maybe.

I keep the blades sharp for cutting, one day I’ll move

while doing it, my last, clever joke.


After he ripped me to two

twin fish circling without sound,

mother did her best to bury me. The flesh

already eager to dissolve, to feed the fields.

There is a different story, the speaking

and reverberation not without wanting.

For now, the bones return to her, animals

graze, the reflection pool never changing,

never tearing away from his gaze.

After he killed me, I spoke so gently to him,

always that last word: me why love.

In answer: your rage is unbecoming,

I can’t bend my heart to meet it,

can't love for fear of you.

So soft you barely heard it whispering

along your skin, goosebumps starting,

why love me why me love me


*First line from e. e. cummings’ love is more thicker than forget

Love is more thicker than forget.

How thin than to have never known.

I’ve always been afraid of things I could never see:

old women with twisted hands reaching for teeth,

tentacles curling up and over the lip of the tub.

And touch could only ever make it worse.

The softness in those old hands; the slime

clinging like aloe. I choose to keep the light off,

to simply not see the things I could never

on the off chance that if I did, I would no longer

be afraid of them. I was never allergic to bees

until I was stung by one.

And now I always will be.

There is so much I don’t know about love

I’m afraid I may someday know it.

About the Author

Dannielle Pendzich

Dannielle Pendzich recently just finished grad school, with an MFA in Screenwriting and Playwriting.

Read more work by Dannielle Pendzich.