Lauren Goodwin Slaughter



Tell me again of the flounder’s eye—
I liked your demonstration

using an olive and a tennis ball
to show how one eye roams

over the top of the head
till adjacent to its twin—from normal

swimming to lateral flat,
so for the rest of their lives left side

equals up. Love, have we flipped
from bottom feeder too fast?

You wear a suit to work, trading in
the worn Carhartts for Jos. A. Bank;

I put on a cardigan and teach.
On occasion, yes, even lipstick.

Tell me again that we’ll live in a cabin.
Make me a necklace of sea glass.


Or, don’t.
We are here with our hardwood floors,

our muscular mixing-appliances,
a patio with shade-loving plants,

ecological light-bulbs. In Italy,
when I was growing our own

evolving son, I could not eat
the unpasteurized Mozzarella di Buffala.

You compared me to Francesca
swirling in romantic infinitude,

forbidden to eat the soft exquisite

cheese. Yes, I still like it
when you touch me.

Touch me. Then,
to paint the nursery.