Lust

As he watches her impale a
Fork into a piece of bread and
Hold it out for him to sample,
He is aroused by the deft movement
Of her hand and chews the bread
In great frustration, oblivious
To the taste of basil and rosemary
And to the feeling of the tender flour
Orbiting his tongue.

She cannot in her innocence perceive
That he is chewing on her kiss,
And dressing her with his famished skin,
So her lips are arrested in a half-smile,
Cold and professional and yet this
Is what appeals most to him,
To take her in her formality,
Right there, amidst the bread and forks,
Rosemary and basil.

Love and Maugham

After hours of searching,
I find what I want;
The first edition of a book
by Somerset Maugham.
Although I’m ecstatic,
I quickly relax my expression,
remembering to never reveal
how much you want
something. Show the person
you don’t care, turn to walk
away, don’t walk away, hover
around the corner, Act, Act,
but don’t act desperate,
nothing’s going to run away.
Change the subject, Pretend
you are interested in something
else, wait, wait to be asked,
‘So do you want it or not?’
But don’t wait too long, you
might end up regretting it,
break the silence before it
turns too expensive.
And if nothing works, sell
your soul, but don’t let it
get away, don’t let it fall
into someone else’s hands.

The Dead Fisherman

Washed up on the beach
Is the body of a fisherman.
The sea has bleached his skin
and the fish have eaten his eyes.
The wind carries the stench
From his seagull-white
rotting corpse to the sunshine
breathing garden
where snails crawl over orchids
leaving a wet trail behind them.
The sun bakes his death that
Pours its horror into the
geriatric hearts of children
Who bend over to see him
Better, to savor the legs that
Drank too much sea,
To re-construct his drowning
In their eyes’ minds.
An arm is aligned with the
Bow-string like Horizon
That shoots ships at the land.
A net lies on the sand
With its empty stomach
Digesting his shadow.

Cooking for the afterlife

Into the oily curry
Went salt from seas
Alive with depth;
The rich aroma of the breast
Above a solitary cinnamon-
Tomatoes bleeding against
Clotted legs.
Bones at the heart of it all;
Bones like fallen angels.
Skin peeling away from
bodies uninhabited-
gravy flavored with a dash of coffin.
Death must taste uncooked;
Not the aftertaste of afterlife.