After the Pulse Orlando Shooting, My Wife Asks if We Can Eat at Chick-fil-A

We don't know yet each name for each body,but know precisely two: one shooter, one friend-of-friends, an old tie from your old lifeand my old life, before it was our one life—Look, look at our lives. Who would not cryat the messes we make? Which we are we, right now;which we do I feel most part of? We love to hatesomebody. And you, love, you love Chick-fil-A,the warmth of every employee inside, and the warmthof a waffle fry against your hungry tongue. No matterif hate harbors deep inside, or high above in the command chain,you feel the love all the same when you walk into that holy franchise of Jesus and fried chicken.But me, I love the love we madewhile a man strapped two guns to his body. The tasteof crispy duck, bite of bitter grapefruit, fragranceof celebration. The clinking of our glasses:Happy anniversary, baby. Not knowing, not needingto know yet that it was happening, that by the timeit was starting, we were nestled in, repeating our mantras:lucky, lucky. There is so much I cannot fathom.No, I cannot imagine what it would be, to raise the gun,gaze down the barrel, aim to kill everyone in sight.So when you ask me, love, if perhaps today is one of thosewhen I can overlook the burn and raze, the rumblein my belly, let love for you win out—Aren't we hungry, always? Our tongues insideeach other's citrus depths, our own sweet joy a fleeting glazeover the ash that coats my ravenous throat.