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.