in a blue-orange galley kitchen in spring
an evening meal is prepared
onion and garlic obviously
unchopped cherry tomatoes
blistering in the hot oil
spaghetti strands of anger
and adult thyme
fresh so fresh
afraid of acridity
the lemon left aside
its acidtongue waxed-in
plated in a shallow ceramic bowl
creamwhite sides pushing at screen-corners
against the scratched table
places already set for four
Habit sends hollowing questions
sailing keelless
while History chews sullenly
bellying down her last meal
fingers concreting over
marbling veins playing across her cheeks
silently fissuring
a box will have to be found
fork looping
round and round
echoing mistakes
avoiding the claycold bottom
the public clatter
echoing mistakes
I look up from coiling thoughts
to you
wilted over your bowl
no appetite?
but then that was always your problem
if you won’t eat
I will
and to my taste
I’m getting the lemon
