When you took me to the cafeteria at the resort near Kolodny Valia I ate the kielbasa served with eggs and stew and thick braided bread and cutlets and cabbage and beans. I ate them all, love, until my tongue bloated and gristle clotted my gums and ate still at the cookout where mosquitoes munched my ankles and grilled kielbasa popped shiny between my teeth and ate the kielbasa dangling lewd from meat shop windows and handled lovingly by thick mothers and the kielbasa folded into the suit jackets of men who leered at girls on the public buses and all the buildings of all our evening walks rising round and red, kielbasa stairwells and balconies and balustrades and the ladies promenading the smooth plazas, their mouths stretched lewdly, dabs of mustard staining their lips and the trolleys, these too, ran on tracks of kielbasa, black wheels grooving the gut skin, the sidewalks breathing paprika and pork flesh and the moon drug around on a greasy leash; the suspension bridges heaving over rivers whose slick tides burped sausage onto the lines of quiet, flatulent fishermen. All these kielbasa I ate, and more. No man should suffer such riches alone. I never saw you take a single bite, love.

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