Leuconostoc Mesenteroides dominates, producing a mix of acids, alcohol, and aroma compounds.

He stands in the open doorway of the fridge in his underwear. The chill light spills out behind him in the dark. Fog curls from the walls of the fridge in response to the sticky summer air. He fishes a pickled peach from the jar in the fridge. A bit of juice escapes and runs down in his beard. He closes the fridge door and pads through the dining room into the sunroom. He sits on the old woven couch and watches the long street. Headlights play across the windows as gravel in the driveway crunches under wheels. The headlights cast shadows, foreign and long, against the far wall. He listens to the car door open and close. He fishes another peach from the jar. The dogs run out of the bedroom and stand at the door, heads cocked at odd angles. The clicking of the deadbolt echoes through the house. He watches Eric walk by and into the bedroom.
“I’m here,” he calls.
Eric walks into the sunroom.
“Want a peach?” He asks, holding out the jar. The brine in the jar sloshes. The peaches swim in circles. “You look handsome in the dark, suits your complexion,” he says, taking a bite of peach.
“What?” Eric laughs, sinking onto the couch next to him. He wraps an olive arm around his chest and pushes his face into his neck, in the curve above the shoulder. “What are you doing out here?” he asks, his words muffled.
“I was just thinking about Canada,” he says, taking another bite of peach.
“You just dribbled peach juice on my face.”
“The porcupines like the taste of the glue used in the plywood, so they come out at night and I remember the sound of them chewing on the eaves of the cabin. Your tires in the driveway sounded like that grinding.” He takes another bite of peach.

He smells lilac bushes in a dream and wakes with a start. The wine bottles rattle as he tosses them in the recycling bin. He checks the mail and finds six notices from the bank. He cuts himself while doing the dishes, the good knife, the Christmas gift from his roommate’s sister, finding the soft meat of his palm. His shoes creak. He seals the envelope. The cards clatter as he shuffles them. He takes the film off the frozen lasagna, the heat rolling out from the oven and coaxing a ring of sweat from the base of his hairline. He brushes his hand across his thigh, dusting his jeans with the orange powder of the Cheetohs. His phone lights up as he types on the keypad. He organizes the book case in alphabetical order first from a to z and then the reverse. The doorknob to his apartment comes off in his hand as he turns it. He passes the stack of past-due library books as he leaves, the pile tilting against the wall, a mountain of dimes, growing slowly. The marshmallow burns the roof of his mouth as he pulls it off the stick. The tea kettle hums a low chord. He pops the top of the bottle. The sounds waves reach him, soft and golden. He places more spinach than he thinks necessary for the dish in the pan, knowing it will wilt down further than he expects. He bends down to tie his shoe and remembers his childhood friend, the one that got the tennis shoes he wanted, the ones that pumped up, and how he had burned to own them.

He hadn’t planned for tonight to turn out the way it did. He hadn’t expected the drinks being as strong as they were. He didn’t know he would turn the corner and see him. He didn’t anticipate getting loud and pushing through the crowd out into the chill of the evening. He left his helmet at the bar. He left his debit card too. The fluorescent lights of the gas station bathroom play across his face, drawing out gaunt shapes. He vomits in the sink. Sweat crawls down to his nose and hangs there. It’s a bad idea to ride your bike this drunk. A pain fires between his third and fourth ribs. He holds his hand to his side as he breathes. “Fuck, I’m out of shape,” he says, spitting into the sink.

The egg cracks unevenly as he taps it against the side of the bowl, several small pieces of shell crawling down the side to the batter. He scatters the crumbs in the bottom of his paper bag under the table, watching as a few finches work up the courage to dart under and claim them. He peeks out the bottom right-hand corner of the living room window, sneaking a look at the person ringing the door bell. The eyes of the fresh-caught squid seem to follow him as he passes the fish stall at the market. His oar cuts into the water, the canoe rocking gently with the shifting of his weight. He puts a pot of coffee on. He eyes his grandfather warily as he accepts the plate with a pimento cheese sandwich on it. The waitress stands over him, tapping her order pad with a pencil. He picks up his roommate’s pumice stone in the shower, and thinking of her, rubbing it against her foot - one hand bracing against the tub wall - sets it back and rinses his hands in the water. The car’s thermostat dial clicks as he turns it to defrost. In his dream, he finds a manatee while snorkeling, several ribbons of red curling out from her back where she met with a motorboat. He sets several pieces of bacon in the skillet, the fat spitting as it hits the pan.

“I rode all the way over here with a fucking cast-iron skillet – open the fucking door.”
The deadbolt clicks and the door swings open.
Eric is standing in the entryway. He crosses his arms and doesn’t move.
“I couldn’t call. I don’t have your number.” He stands on the stoop, bike resting against his hip. “Can I come in?”
Eric steps aside.
He wheels his bike in and leans it against the fireplace. “Can I get some water?” he asks.
“I’ll grab it,” Eric says and walks out of the room.
He sits on the couch. It is deep and his legs stick out. He hears the faucet shut off and scoots forward so he can bend his knees.
Eric returns and holds out the water. He remains standing.
“Do you wanna sit?”
He sits on the edge of the cushion at the far end.
“So you finally brought my skillet back.”
“Yeah, I cooked some with it, but didn’t wash it.”
“Only took you, what, two of my skillets ruined to learn that?” he asks, smiling.
“I’ll never forget it.”
“I bet you won’t.”
He pulls the skillet out of his bag and sets it on the ground. Eric’s dog ambles over and sniffs it. He reaches over and scratches between his shoulder blades. The dog starts licking the pan.
“I also brought your Roseanne box set,” he says, pulling it out of the bag, “it’s just too good.”
“I’ve been relying on reruns on cable,” Eric says scooting closer on the couch and snatching the box.
“Damn, can’t wait?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “What else you got in there?”
“I found your Jeep’s service manual in a drawer the other week,” he says, pulling it out and setting it on the arm of the couch.
Eric leans over and fishes through the books and notebooks in the bag. “You getting rid of this too?” he asks, pulling out a plastic zombie figurine.
“That just stays in my bag,” he says grabbing the zombie away. He drags it in a lurch across the couch cushion. “He’s been watching my back. Eating brains. Living the life.”
“The undead life.”
Silence grows between them, broken only by the noise of the dog still licking the pan on the floor.
“You know that’s gross, right?” He says, nudging the pan with his shoe.
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Well, let me be the first to tell you.”
“I’d still go back in the house for you,” Eric says.
“What?” he asks, turning to face him.
Eric scratches his beard and looks at him from the corner of his eye. “You heard me.”
“You need to work on your nonchalant act.”
Eric laughs.
“Do you remember the time,” he begins, “we were playing zombies and I got so mad at Victoria?
“And so drunk,” Eric interrupts.
“Oh, come on, not that drunk.”
“You’re talking about the time she got the skateboard and made it to the helipad and you flipped the board over?”
“No, the other time.”
“When I used dynamite to clear the helipad?”
“Yeah.”
“You were drunk then too.”
“Ah, well.”
“I’ve lost about half my zombies from you flipping boards over.”
“I’ll buy you a new pack. Don’t worry, It’s a small price to pay.
“Zombies and cast-iron skillets?” Eric asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Worthwhile.”

He holds the banana to the side of his head, mimicking a telephone. He picks at the scab above his left eyebrow. He grabs an old woman’s shoulder, bracing himself against the lurch of the bus. He picks at the apple seed stuck between his two front teeth. When it’s quiet, he can hear his sunburned shoulders crackle as he moves them. He watches the man’s jaw line move as he talks. He wakes with a start as the bookshelf next to his bed crashes into his dresser. He watches as his roommate embroiders a tiger. He pours the frosting over the petit fours. He quickly counts the bartender’s freckles as he orders. He picks up the tissue paper on Christmas morning, folding it and placing it in the gift wrap box in the closet. He buttons his cardigan. He moves his queen to take his opponent’s rook. He moves left on the bench as the girl across from him blows smoke in his face. He pulls a fudgesicle out of the freezer. He swears as the train terminal rejects his swipe card. He eats pancakes, dipping each bite in a pool of syrup on a separate plate. He twirls his fork, trying to break the string of cheese traveling back to the plate. He throws a book across the room at the roach. The chickens in the back yard, pecking beneath his bedroom window at pebbles and insects call to one another and wake him.

He rolls over on his back and pulls the Afghan throw over his head. The light from the lamp next to the bed winks through the spaces the crochet hook did not braid. Even though he has just washed it, it smells like the old house. There, underneath the April Spring Fresh is a smell less commercial: old, dog, a comforting must. He stretches his arm out from under it and pushes the fabric across his teeth. It squeaks – the fibers of the wool vibrating against the stridulations of his teeth. He pulls his arm back under and wiggles his fingers through the holes – rings on his fingers, no bells for the toes. He knows it’s a matter of time until the smell of this house will settle on the blanket: the onions his roommate always cooks with, the peach brine he spilled, and the cut of chill he swears is from whatever’s haunting the house.

what are poets but vultures, circling for the choicest meats

i am sitting on the beach with you,
where the land bleeds off at the seam into the water,
and the water bleeds black into the night.
you are just a silhouette,
silver backlit by the easy moon as you say,
“i know it’s cliché, but those boats on the horizon make me feel lonely.”

i have felt this same aimless longing
standing in the velvet of the waves
as the foam snapped out along the sand.
why is it that you and i and everyone before can feel this
here at the sifting of the water?
in the rain on a window upon waking.
in the smoke of a cigarette stitching out from your hand.

there is truth in that which is trite,
a clumsy filmy light groping along what it illumes;
yet we dare not speak words so bare and bromide,
we confide as an aside or beneath the night
that moments in our lives are significant.
we are all a crude poetry,
the long days, moments of metaphor sliding past before we can hem them to us.

Michael Maestlin Called to Say that It's Just One Decimal Place Off

do you remember what you've dreamed? the notion is silly. It resembles a clown-faced tenderness. do you remember the blackberry bush in the backyard that would bloom in spring. do you still have that scar from slipping in the brambles? do you remember late nights with just the kitchen light ? there is a longing for you, for those afternoons and evenings. it was new for a moment. everything dissolves in days. i have come to you across thousands of pines. you were a finger width away last night as i checked the map. mexico was periwinkle stretching out below. does distance signify endless desire. have you been back to the island in the river we camped on? there's a woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk of that black birch. do you still agree with Hass about each particular being the falling off from a first world of undivided light? we caught in the muddy places. the father's body is the numinous flesh. do your r's still look like m's when you try to write in cursive? did you send your elegy by correspondence? did you save my drawings? the words are hanging on one thousand walls. my hair is in your hands. the places remember how love was made. did you manage to braid your beta keratins? did you take to the sky on feathers foreign and wrong? i love the orange silver of your shoulders. the leaves are turning a shade reminiscent of you. it is all about the old. after a while, I understood. do you hurt? do you still wonder at the grief? i have drunk my weight in wine one thousand times. have you been thinking? are you at a loss? this world is almost a boat. sometimes i can feel the small fish beneath the willows. was there a woman? i felt her presence like a thin wire of salt. it hardly had to do with her. do you feel you have your justice? you've been lingering in my whiskey. have you found continuing pleasure? who rests their weight full against your collarbone these days? does your voice still sound the same, a soft rumble washed out by the noise around it? i'm still allergic to bee stings. i've been roasting pumpkinseeds this fall. do you ever remember the taste of the shoulder? do you think of the scent of the arm? is your thirst still tragic? i am still drunk. are you still querulous in the mornings? do you still take that tone? i felt dismantled in the thing you said. have you made friends? do you still bake your own bread? i've stitched you in the cotton running out beneath the floorboards. did you find your clarity? i've only got the general idea. i swear it's been that way since childhood. are you still sometimes violent? would you still mock me when I say words like luminous? where are you holding on?


if it comes to blows, i will lay you out.

i have carved my hame in the kitchen table, the "j" drawling out beneath your butter knife.

i have stayed up late
smoking joints with my roommate again.
we lost most thursdays this way,
burning it from its end
until all we have left is a handful of vowels and hours before morning’s light.
“home is where the heart is,”
i say, setting my bourbon on Aubrey’s desk, “and the thing about that is,
how do you find your heart before it’s too late?”
the ice in my glass catches the lamplight
- sending it out in flashes again and again,
laving across his face, and before i reach the end
of my statement, he turns from his computer and rolls his eyes my way.
this is the way
things usually go between us, and it is
the closest i’ve come to home since the end
of my first one: coming home late
one night and fighting with my father again
in the kitchen, the bulb over the stove, under the hood, the only light.
i’ve yet to forget that light,
the way it seemed all soft yellows,
and if i could do it again –
well, it doesn’t really matter, the reality is
that it’s far too late
for that. regardless if you expect or want it, an end is an end.
i have had too many ends
already. watched the snuffing out of too much light.
it feels as if i am arriving a moment late,
that if i had taken another way,
the shortcut i’ve been meaning to try, i’d show up before everyone is
saying goodbye. again.

again,
i will come in at an end.
the truth is,
the light
only ever illuminates the way
that seems to make me late.

i’d like to not be late again
and for my wandering way to end.
aubrey’s light is still on.

over the next seventy years, you'll probably only store one hundred twenty five megabytes in your memory.

there was an open field next to my father's church in missouri, and i remember
how, after service, i would wade out with the other boys
-awash in weeds, padding silently in penny loafers - watching as their bodies shone
in the afternoon sun as we would hunt for grasshoppers.
i never was able to catch them, to hold them
between my hands - something in the way they ate grass terrified me.

that church was demolished a few years ago, the sanctity leaving with each pew
the movers loaded into the truck. the baptismal pulled out by a crane through a hole
in the roof, and finally the bulldozers and backhoes.

they built a race track there, asphalt sprawling across the nearby open fields
- and the roar of engines, the chambers igniting and pistons pumping sound much like
the grasshoppers' stridulations: the well-defined lip being moving across a
finely-ridged surface and vibrating as it does so.

like my corduroy slacks, one thigh against the other as i would run into the grass, peppered with blooms of clip-on neck ties.

I Owe a Cock to Asclepius

He moves among the chickens. He wears jeans, a v-necked white undershirt stained with the memory of work, and brown cowboy boots. The hens protest his presence with the din of their collected clamor. A jerking roiling mass of brown feathers, beaks and stuttering feet, punctuated here and then suddenly there with the lustrous gleam of a dark eye peering between the action to catch his. And he leans down to catch the chicken by the neck, and he rolls his hand in a sudden flick. Barely registering the dull snap of the vertebrae, the heave of the soft body as the life abruptly dissipates. Not lost in the languid motion from the veins or snuffed in the entrapment of the lungs, but like a brief flash of energy, a firefly’s lamp deep in a clump of weeds. There and then the next moment, lost. Life is different than you think. He culls for hours. He rolls the right and left wrists, freeing the birds of their burdens. He sets them in piles of fifteen. He sets ten piles of fifteen. His wrists hurt, the dull ache spreading back from the heel of his palm to his elbow, brightened by a shock of pain now and then. He sits in the grass away from the chicken house and the ten piles of fifteen. His shirt sticks to the sweat that spreads across his chest. The stains deepen. The sun stands overhead and he has been working since this morning.

“Felis Cattus, is Your Taxonomic Homenclature, an Endothermic Quadruped Carnivorous by Nature?”

Aubrey leans back in the high-backed antique chair he's sitting in at the desk,
"So this lady at work today, she always has a glass of wine by herself and today she had this like, bag with all these kittens in it.
He pauses as Shenise and I laugh
"All these," he continues
"What!" Shenise interrupts.
"Kittens!!" I say, pulling the afghan covering Shenise to lie over my legs. The air pulled into the room from the window by the fan is chill and carries the call of crickets.
Aubrey huffs and continues, "They were all gold and there were all these purples and teals . . ." "Wait wait wait," I exclaim, waving my hands, "so the pattern on the purse was kittens?" "Yeah."
“I thought you meant the purse was full of the animal.”
Shenise begins to laugh, the mattress carrying the shake of her body to where I sit at the foot of the bed.
“I wouldn’t have been attached to it then,” Aubrey says, cutting his eyes from the embroidery hoop he’s working on to glare at my stupidity.
“But when I complimented it, she said she had eleven cats.”
“Ohhhhh, she’s a crazy cat lady,” Shenise groans
“Eleven?!”
“Yeah, eleven does put you in crazy territory,” Aubrey agrees.
“Yeah.”
“Totally.”
“Is she married?” Shenise asks
“I don’t think so,”
“I don’t think soooooo,” I say overlapping Aubrey’s facts with my conjecture.
“And then she told me about this puppy someone had - a Chihuahua”
“Ugh, no.”
“Now, she was watching it. And she wore it. At the bar. Under her blouse. It’s little head would poke out here,” Aubrey sets the hoop down and grabs the neck of his t-shirt, pulling it down and flapping it.”
“Ahahahaohmygod,” Shenise says, rolling from side to side, tangling the afghan around her. “Are you serious? And you listened to her?!” Aubrey sighs and begins stitching again.
“You’re way too nice.”
“She’s ollld,” he chuckles, “I don’t know. I was like, waiting for my tables to finish eating. Everything was done. I kinda wanted to hear what the crazy cat lady had to say. She’s hilarious. She went on forever. And she told me if I ever. I told her that there’s cats. That the neighbors let their cats run wild. And she said ‘You should go play with them. You know what you should do? Get some catnip and rub it all over your body. Lie on the ground’ . . .”
Shenise bursts over Aubrey’s story, hooting
“. . . and they’ll come play with you!”
We all laugh, Aubrey setting his head on the desk. My eyes water and in the tears the lamplight sets his hair on fire.
“I’m serious,” he continues after catching his breath.
“There’s. no way. that’s true,” Shenise punctuates her sentence with chuckles.
“I’m so serious. She told me to do that. And I just thought about claws like,” Aubrey swivels the chair to face us and rakes at the air, a feline snarl pulling his lips back from his teeth, “cats jumping on you . . .”
“Rubbing on you,” I add.
“. . . she had this look of ecstasy.”
“Wow, using herself to get her cats high,” I say
“Yeah, but it’s just like, ugh, something about. There’s something crazy cat lady - there’s something about the physicality of it . . .”
“Yeah,” Shenise agrees.
“Rubbing,”
“on her,” Shenise finishes my sentence.
“. . . all over her. It’s like making love to a pack of cats.” Aubrey rubs his hands in a flourish across his chest, the movements growing more exaggerated as our laughter grows, the fan blowing it out the door where it spills into the living room and fills it.