Adriana Cloud’s “Instructions for Making Salsa Verde”



For days the fireflies have been eating my darkness
but no one has gained any weight.
Disappointment is always buy-one-get-two-free
if one has the appetite.
I have avocado pits
and I lick their swollen faces before I crush them open
with the flat of the big knife.
I study the fireflies, how they turn away
when the wind smells too much of rye.
I study my anger in the bathroom mirror.
It looks like you.
Is there a recipe book for the rejected?
The way a rock looks at salt and shivers
because it doesn’t know if salt is a memory
or a promise. I need a recipe for that.
I have nothing but ribs now.