first things first
alyssa witvoet | Spring 2022
To invite a dinner guest, I must first
cook dinner.
The sun sets and crunches beneath
my salted shoes
as I leave the office, wrapped in
my roommate’s clothes.
I’m still shivering.
We meant to have weekly dinners—
family dinners—
I don’t know what happened.
(That’s a lie.)
Muddied rivers slipped inside the
apartment’s pipes—perhaps
I muddied them—either way,
every night I fail
to boil the water to potency.
Over and over, I fill my favorite dented pot in
the shrilly stuttering stream our tap expels,
and set it upon the flame.
I try not to watch too closely, I don’t
mean to scare him.
Steam rises, bubbles don’t.
Still, tonight, I repeat myself again—
the water and I are equally stubborn.