She cooks fish and rice,
her unfolded hips
pushing all into place.
Oils, and aromas,
train buds to lap at shadows.
The marl of her hands
turns bowls of smoke
into lemon and butter.
I won’t get to eat the spiced Mackerel,
but I imagine my scaly head laid
in a tabby cat’s saucer.
I dream of small-boned piquant desires,
the lick of her fingers,
the coral curl of her tongue
as If she were a cat and I a fish in a dish.
She wears dark clothes, a peasant garb,
black skirts below her knees,
a lace shawl when she goes to church.
She is Greek, a Turk
an Albanian. She is an Etruscan vineyard
for orphans. A mother to a lover.
Her gourd is full and spilling.
In her hair black horses leap,
a few stout gray mares
amidst the mane.
Tides turn and swirl
through turtle-shell combs.
She’s not a disciple of pretty.
She is earthenware to hold my hungers.
These words are just terracotta shards.
What she is, is an alcove for halvah.
Apart from Holy Days,
she works at a grocery store.
Where she bakes grape-filled suns,
and moon-glazed pastries
for those in need of the olive yield
of her light.
I didn't realize I hadn't posted my first poem I ever had published (albeit in a small newsletter). It was my first attempt at poetry after having been humiliated in high school (by an English teacher, no less) and I was proctoring a bar exam. I had written it on the back of one of those little passes we gave to students who needed to go to the restroom, if I remember correctly. Anyway, it was about my girlfriend's greyhound, who lived with me for several years (so he was kind of mine too). His name was Mikey, and he was a wonderful, unique pup.
MIKEY
Light foot flash on oval track,
Halvah-shaded straining back,
Playful buck, so full of *****,
Gentleman, yet ready to funk,
Bouncing, prancing, bowing boy,
Love ta shake dat rabbit toy.
Who would think that anyone,
After all that money and fun,
Would put beauty down to rest?
Glad we got him, he's the best.
When I was a kid I learned to eat
By ending a meal with something sweet;
Pudding, ice cream, sweet canned fruit –
The need for sweet was absolute.
That craving had been set in stone
When I’m with others, or alone.
My dinner will not feel complete
Unless it’s finished with a treat:
Cake or fruit pie, a la mode;
Worth the sugar overload.
Licorice or Hershey’s kisses
Join the list of never-misses.
Halvah, gummies, chocolate raisins,
Toasted nuts with honey glazin’s;
Cobblers, cookies, lemon tarts,
Any sweet that’s off the charts.
All I need’s a bite or two
To let me know my meal is through.
Dessert is a necessity
And always will be so to me.
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