Cooked At A Different Temperatures

Love poem

The topic of love has been left

 

to the dark yellow hit machines

of the popular movie making magic

and muscle bound music of a marketing

moose going down the street asking

for what everyone wants to hear. We

speak into his left antler that, for all

purposes, looks like an ancient ear.  He chews

on the data and hums the same old

six chords of girl meets boy,

boy meets girl or the loss of one

or the other. Where are the women?

And the men? Are you game, the moose

says. But imagine if the only food

worth eating was malted milk shake

of bubble gum. Would it be worth

the cavities? The body needs

more that the occasional nod to youth.

 

This is why I sing of my wife.

The slowly rolled sushi has to be

cut into six pieces. Six degrees

of finding the delight in avocado

mixing with crab and jasmine rice

and wrapped tightly. And what of

the roasted meat with its own juices

which simmer in the daily making

of a life together. The drama

of love goes beyond a large

animal meandering down the street.

I mean to celebrate the moments

after yes, and I do and it has

been ten years, really, wow

that was fast. There is more

to love than being game. Like

the time we went to Germany

and tour the Castles of the Mad

King of Bavariam the same Disney

Flattened like corn masa

on the griddle making for easy

on the palette tortillas. Read Galway

Kinnell into a night of caressing. 

 

The table is being set, the movie

is finished its mass run of theaters,

and the moose’s music melody 

too simple. Well, let us be

an us in our praying bones.

Reviews

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

A tight knit envelope of seared and grated emotion, a simple delivery with a potent structure and flow, well done, good read.