8.11

I crush the garlic, knife flat side

down, pressing ‘till the crunch

and I can peel away the outer layers,

lop off the brown nub ends

and chop, chop, chop.

step one for the mediterranean

pasta. onions, olive oil, garlic

into the pan. more oil, heat,

saute. such a nice word for

sizzle, and timing, and aromas

that reach down to somewhere

dusky and full and pungent.

mouthfuls of the earth, sea, sky

our garden, and all together

into ripeness that pulls at the

pouches of my inner cheeks

and lips.

it is a little serenade of the passions

odors and oblongs, squiggles and

giggles, laughter close on the back

of my tongue. ready for the others

but really for me. enjoyment in the

handiwork of my senses coming to

bloom.

the sensuous play of the kitchen, in

a four bed home. place to play and

create, mask and wait, all the while

pretending

that it’s work.

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