Ode to a Certain Level of Heat

Counterintuitive as it may seem, the most passionate stove setting is medium low. 
I mean no disrespect to high heat or the crisp gifts that its kiss delivers—however,
when I stir garlic on medium-low heat for no longer than one verse of a song 
or bring a briskly boiling sauce down to a persistent simmer for an amount of time 
most aptly described as “however long it takes,” I am using the flame to say,
“I love you in the steadiest and gentlest way of which I am capable; take of this
warmth and make of it what you will; my heart is your chafing dish.” This is to say
nothing of the slow burn of memories, each particular meal and its myriad savors
and labors, nothing of the beets my lover and I managed to pan fry despite our lack
of a plan or the kit for lasagna I left in their fridge. This is only to say the deepest care
comprises the slightest work. Sure. By now, you suspect me of attempting to sell you
a crockpot. So, let me admit: The beets were tender enough, but from a critical distance,
an unexceptional course. I never learned the fate of the lasagna. I cook most meals
for myself. Still, I watch the flame to keep it short and blue, for the sake of the garlic.

Your Copy of a Book about Power

When I told you that I was tired of owing you something I didn’t have,
I thought I was talking about love,

as we sat on the steps of an empty grade school in the autumn sun
and I handed you one more mix CD 

and your copy of a book about power, I had somehow already forgotten
how you chased me back down,

cannonballed into my lap, and followed me home in the long dull rain
caterwauling to be let inside,

or how once, you led me into your room and wouldn’t permit me to leave 
until I gave you more of my body,

which I gave to you then because I thought I owed it to you—my mouth
and all its work, my fingers 

plucking out something on your detuned piano other than odes to divorce,
my gut in orbit to yours

for a time inertia might have sustained till you wore me to dust—but really,
that was the thing that I didn’t have.

Stevie Subrizi is a genderqueer poet and singer-songwriter in Allston, Massachusetts. They are a former cohost of the Boston Poetry Slam while its home was the Cantab Lounge. Their poems have been published in places like NAILED, FreezeRay, and Neon, and their latest EP Nightstands is available on Bandcamp now. www.steviesubrizi.com