Monday, April 4, 2011

While Dinner Cooks in the Apartment Kitchen

Sage and rosemary surely change everything--
slow roasted, a fragrance broken into sauté
as fresh rain on lettuce seedlings,  as a warm sun
softens a breeze.  The shimmer of wet streets
at night, abandoned pillows crouching
behind a long, white sofa bed on level two,

a group of candlelit faces amidst the sparkle
of wineglasses raised in a toast next door, a reading
light glowing past a row of books and orchids
beneath the red pull-shade across the way, while tulips
droop on an empty lit table, a face peers quietly
from a dark window and disappears.  In a room lined

with a child’s drawings, a young mother holding a book
flicks on a bedside lamp and pulls the shade.  The click
and echo of sturdy boot heels fade past, trailing
behind them the ache of collective loneliness, steeped
as it is in savory green herbs, your nose a reminder
that the space you inhabit, the language you speak,

the stance you take, is a fortress not yet penetrated
by the frequency of potential friends or the possibility
of a new enemy knocking on the apartment door.

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