Dear Midas,
You said we could build a house of soup cans,
that the labels would turn into wallpaper.
We could sleep on newspaper stuffed in plastic,
like pioneers curled around each other
on corn-husk mattresses. You called the moon
our nightlight; we toasted each other
with wineglasses filled with rainwater.
I’d forgotten how humidity makes labels peel,
how plastic melts in too much heat.
How the moon burns out each month.
This morning, vacuuming, I found the box
of condoms: one missing, the rest expired.
Just a phase, you said. Stressed from work.
We’ll rediscover intimacy without sex—
words held up to my lips like caviar. I swallowed
them because you asked, but after all this time
it turns out they are nuggets I can’t digest.