Took a while, but I found the perfect blend of meat | spice | sharpness & cheese. So perfect the sum of a lifetime’s carefully foraged parts piles itself neatly, poised to be tucked | rolled | tucked. Begging for tighter & tighter encasement. Self-heated by beans | cheese & carne, my burrito gurgles & sighs & closes its eyes & I’m able to feel swell about leaving it out a few nights while I eat in a different bed, returning to it possibly deconstructed but easily re-piled | tucked | rolled | tucked. Easier every time my hand is forced to let it sit | stew & age, popping in and cooing to tighten the folds & love it from afar, when I can’t. Dreaming of tucking | wrapping | folding | piling | tucking & feasting when I should be sleeping.
Stephen Ground is a writer, poet, filmmaker, and picture-taker wandering Winnipeg, Manitoba. His poems have appeared in From Whispers to Roars, Neon Magazine, White Wall Review, and elsewhere. Find more at stephenground.com. Twitter: @sualtmo