Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Wind in Her Hair and Something That Has Nothing to do with Cooking

Her lipstick is gone
dotted on coffee cups and napkins
her mascara, eyeliner and shadow
worn in the wind, washed away.

Her skin stands bare
stripped from it, all the things that,
she would believe, would make her more beautiful;

only nature defines her now,
highlighting her cheeks with the rosiness only a cold wind can purvey
her eyes sprinkled with light freckles
and her brow kissed by the gentle sun

what remains now is a countenance
that would make my heart beat for the first time

she is living,

Dreaming of a meal,
wrapped in paper and string
waiting for the love and flame
that would come, once a familiar hand
pulls the door open and the light comes on.

Soon sweet smells of onion and olive oil,
butter and lemon dance together, dotting the air
just above the pan.

Diced this and that now enters,
bounding from the board to the steaming range
color and texture form

cream swirls and swoons
making potatoes soft and smooth;
rosemary and basil dot the milky white.

The dream progresses and the sounds of
clanking pans, and thumping, chopping, knives increase;
the hands are becoming frantic, frustrated
and the ingredients keep multiplying

it seems that too much has entered the pan
the potatoes boil over
and the steam becomes thick, black, smoke.
The sauce is breaking.

Swift footsteps approach from behind
and second set of hands dash from spoon to panhandle,
knife to ladle and the flames calm,
the potatoes reduce their froth
and the sauce renders

The second pair of hands now come near,
covering the first, interlocking and stroking gently;
like the flames, the panic dies down
and the light turns off.

The dream ends, eyes flutter open
and the two pairs of hands lay between them
still interlocked.

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