Absinthe, Cigars and Oysters
I am a thief
of neon signs and boyfriends,
a collector
and a greedy little hedonist.
A common bird with a garish nest
of icons and blue laundry pegs.
But if you are alert, you will have noticed
my one numb eye
that never moves – uninspired
by the spinning scenery,
it is frozen and fixed
on a parallel life
being played out
off the crowded stage.
Bird’s Nest Soup
You are an alchemist -
an expert in reducing
converting
compounding the elements:
Used To Be
Could Have Been and
Never Was -
adept at whipping up
(with only a moment’s notice)
a maelstrom of memories
broken twigs and spit
to be stewed,
simmered
stirred
and served with rice.
In your care
things unholy and unwhole
are spun into gold.
Spaghetti alle Vongole’
You have no idea, do you?
A simple meal, mild flavours
in correct proportions -
fresh elements and pleasing
salty juices, hardly seem injurious
and perhaps without pernicious intent
such a meal would be as it sounds:
a passing and benign pleasure, but
this house is no democracy and you
have fallen under the spell
of a slippery despot
with designs on your free will.
The audible enjoyment you carelessly display
lip-licking and encore requests
seal your fate; with the first bite
you unknowingly placed
the power of our household
into my waiting hand.
So do keep eating –
it is no coincidence that I have served
Che Guevara’s signature dish.
If you had listened more carefully
you would have detected malice
in my choice of nom de guerre:
Your Thoughtful and Loving Wife.
