Temptations

Slightly sad, slightly amusing little poem about temptations.

She is telling me about her husband's affair

Shakes out the paper napkin 
Places it neatly on her lap
All the while eyes lowered 
As though ashamed 
A necklace of red blotches at her throat
Belying anger 
It should hold my attention
And in normal circumstances 
I would have stopped 
Mid forkful
To stare at her, open mouthed 
As she describes
The final explosive row.

I would have tutted
At his boldness, his lies
As she repeats them word for practised word
Mouth forming a series of ugly shapes
I would not have noticed
The tiny piece of lettuce stuck between her teeth
The mayonnaise that flecks her chin 
As she spews out his misdemeanours
I would have carefully replaced my knife and fork
On the just wiped table
Out of deference to her pain
Dabbed at my mouth with the crumpled napkin
Nodded sympathetically
Left the food a partly finished work of art.

Sadly I do none of these -
These things that would have shown 
What a caring, sympathetic friend I was
How wisely she had chosen me 
As her lunch companion
Someone who would listen and support
Recoil in horror
Stretch an arm across the table, pat her hand.
My fork transports thin slivers of ham 
Posting them at intervals through open lips
A cherry tomato pops between my teeth
Adding a sweetness to the salty meat
I pause and grind black pepper
Dreamily watch it fall and settle

I do care about the affair 

I try to listen
As her voice rises in indignation
Want to be mesmerised 
By the revelations
But the reflection in the window
Behind the chattering friend
Draws my eyes like a magnet 

My taste buds, dull with salad, start to tingle
Two large vanilla slices sit proudly side by side
Pastry, golden, flaky, promises some buttery delight

Whilst its counterpart, the bulging custard filling, dense and yellow
Trembles slightly as the diners eat,

Sun shimmers on the lightly dusted tops
Multi layered happiness on a plate.

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

I think about poetry all day Jill, I mean, the pseudoscience of it. The assumptions and methods
erroneously regarded as scientific. Because sooner or later, we have to give in to the notion
that the science of poetry, the systemized knowledge of it, is nothing other than just
distinction. That 'voice' is the only victory over esoteric supremacy. In other words, if you
talk to me, and I listen to you and trust in your figurative likenesses, isn't that what poetry is for?

Like cake making from scratch, like my grandma did, the part of it that we so often overlook
is systematic plan. The patience. Having your loved ones tiptoe in the kitchen; the story.

wonderfully written.
dana

[Sami Khalil]

"I pause and grind black pepper
Dreamily watch it fall and settle

I do care about the affair
I try to listen
As her voice rises in indignation"

A splendid poem. Enjoyable to read...:)...........................

[Jill Reidy]

Thank you Sami, much appreciated :-)

[Sami Khalil]

You are welcome...:)........................

[W.k.kortas]

It's clever, certainly, especially the contrast between the view of an affair as an "oh, well"...well, affair, as opposed to the clearly more important dessert, and the strength of the imagery and the overall construction raise it above the level of garden-variety cleverness.

[Jill Reidy]

Thank you so much for your comments - they really are much appreciated. Although I've been writing all my life I've only just started sharing my work. It's most encouraging to read reviews like yours. - Jill