we bought plates in Paris, we bought plates in Rome, you liked them kitsch I like them mellow. this one time you broke my favorite plate and got angry at me for hanging it too close to the bed. it was white and had gold hands emerging from it, a trapped ghost begging to be set free. baby, you set her free. And you looked at me, and I looked at me, and we looked at us, and this quirky idea of cutting each other's head and turning it into a taxidermy object of pride.

like a big head of a deer hung on the wall… all the blood absolutely dried, glass eyes, ceramic plate put in the oven again and again. we went into the oven once, it starts out sunny, like a trip to an island. I don’t remember who burned out first, but you were right - the plate was too close to the bed, the golden hands are still here in the kitchen drawer waiting to be glued back.