Dry Salt

A woman laughed at the table behind me.

It was her—or close enough to blind me

with a sudden, sharp, internal heat.

I kept my eyes fixed on my meat.

Then I studied the ketchup bottle’s side,

reading the vinegar and corn syrup to hide

the way my nose was starting to sting.

I’m not going to do the sobbing thing.

Not here, with the clinking of the forks.

I’ll stay tight until the waiter corks

the evening up. I’ll keep the pressure in.

I’m wearing this thin, dry, porcelain skin.