no time like the present, she thinks,
cutting romaine into green ribbons
clinging to the white inside of the
bowl, damp from being just-washed,
her hands perpetually wet, it seems,
and her face to the fire, stoking
those coals to produce plate after
plate proffered at table, the
jumble of silver made a pretty sound,
like bells it was, as she dropped
them on the cloth, the blade of
the knife mirroring back two eyes
two hands, two ears, a mouth,
close-pared fingernails that peel
the protective seal from the ketchup,
screwing the lid back on tight, tight
the bell sound brings her back, back to
the black night under the stars, the
vigil over, walking home the long
way, the taste of the open air upon her tongue
No comments:
Post a Comment