Written for Inspirations Round 22 |
1. The aromas from the kitchen – smoke-encrusted pies, delicious things crafted with despair. You bake into them with malice foresight and precision the craving for somebody else; I marinate in wrath, stew in resentment, and become inedible, indelibly salted. 2. The gifts you gave me: slamming doors and the roar of thunder without the lightning; cirrostratus spelling “danger, beware” in the shape of your name; the glass-eyed stare of your fear-drunk mother. Yet you wondered why. 3. A whisper, a melody of ferocious odes: courtesan for the gods, the seducer-assassin brandishing Holofernes’ head, leading the naked hunt, as legs and arrows splay whatsoever way this hunted man runs. You, my queen of king and country, wage wars of seduction with knives and kohl-rimmed eyes. 4. Mingled hearts, your pain now the underside of mine when it could have been the reverse. So of what use is a fountain of youth, or fatted calves, stone tablets or Midas’ touch, except as purveyors of embitterment, Kryptonite dressed in “I love you’s?” 5. “Please don’t pass me by and pretend to see nothing. Please, help me get her back,” he begged. Embarrassing for both him and I, two sober gentleman of a certain age Boring though well-dressed in togs that speak of means enough to buy affection. 6. My hunger for her spiced the succulent goods that decorated the granite countertops. How could you not have known, tasting what I fed you? But your shock, reflected in the gleaming chrome surfaces, escaped into the electric coils of the stove, drowned out the refrigerator's contented hum, mourning an idea of happiness that was yours alone. |