To Sasha in early February
Antidote for a sulfite allergy
Refrain from having cordials, yet be cordial when declining his offer,
look Maraschino cherries in the eye before you push your hands deep
into your dress pockets. Everything loose in you begins to congeal
under the skin. Your wants are wide, softly pass the pastry filled bites,
no second glances to goat cheese balls, intoxicatingly pink salmon,
thin Manchego slices, jamon Serrano shreds. Cold cuts are for the
other people’s palates, you Thermomix your mouth into obedience,
stash all those shivers down your spine into the breadbox, for that is
salvation. Actually, think bread when your date tells you to go down
on him, cum is scientifically vegan, nothing artificial whatsoever, let’s
ditch this place. He is skinny and tactile, green orb eyes like Greek olives,
has finished two glasses of Pinot Grigio, his anchovy breath makes your
nipples hard and you’d mention the galloping horse behind your sternum
if you could just have a taste of the pickled cocktail onions he nibbled on
with his left hand, the other one on your knee, the weight of your cravings
bottled up in your right popliteal fossa, throbbing behind the silky stockings,
yes, think safe bread again. Garlic smeared focaccia, airy milk buns, leavened
sourdough, the floured table in The Postman always rings twice, tell him
by whispers of your hunger, caught between rebellion and conformity.
Birthing
The throaty croak of dawn, a washed-out sun hung limp
in the sky. The skin of this poem ready to hatch. From
the pit of nightly labors, rosy veins running the shores
of sleep, roof moss and dewy lashes, words peel one thigh
from the waxed cushions of slumber and I want to skip
brushing my teeth, cuddling back against your bare back,
and motherly hold them into my mouth as my hand fumbles
for the pen you engraved with my name, a reminder of the
way they attend us in the tiniest grand gestures. Later, paths,
pulses will make a jordan out of the plump page and I will
find you by the window, sipping cold coffee, smoking
gauloises, gracious enough to enter this room of revisions
where the poem shall stand split open, meandering entrails
laid on the kitchen table, my tongue ready to smooth it over.
What occasionally makes sense
I might be just like my mother’s mother for all I know.
Sharp-tongued and making things up as they come along.
Words, grape juice, meals. Tonguing her teeth before
chopping onion to make ostropel de pui cu mămăliguță.
To be eaten around the three-legged wooden table,
our backs bent over the steaming pot. In the plum tree
in front of the summer kitchen, a magpie eyeing the little
chicks roaming along the red hen. Some inviting promise
in their rousing yellow and the bird knows it. She hungers
to name it. This craving that fills the tender July air, still
with flavors and lures. We are all women of appetites
in this house. Grandma makes must every fall, crushing
dark and white fruit by hand. We drink it the next day,
sediment and froth, and eat pastramă with it. My mother
cuts the mutton in thin slices, rubs salt, pepper, chili
and thyme against it. Rolls it up, keeps it cool for days
in a row. Then it hangs in the afumătoare where the aroma
tingles my nostrils and gives me goose bumps. Later, the three
of us breaking bread as evening comes chattering down
and this very alphabet of love blooms into our veins.
When morning comes, I crave to smell my mother’s smell,
all honeycomb, vinegar and exhaustion. The crook of her neck
is where this intoxication begins, every purple morning,
for the next thirty years. I will then wake up to a mouthful
of needles whose wholeness won’t stay put, much as I bleed
my way through their eyes. Slivers of past conversations, gestures
and wouldas nest under every fold of skin. Vast tomorrows lay
ahead, jottings of poems scratch at every white corner and not even
a daughter can give me back the pleasure of the mouth, the seduction
of endless noons filled with albă-ca-zăpadă, salată de vinete,
the in-between hugs and shared layers of fatigue, natter and laughter.
Except my daughter wears your calves the same way, and grandma
reminds me every Saturday when I visit of the way hunger never
apologizes and that there are no rooms in our bodies without ghosts.
To Sasha in early February
Let me imagine you will grow back
into tiny feet and perky giggle, tasting
sand from the back of your hand while
I watch asphalt burst with heat, the husk
of August cracking with the burden of
the cerulean blue, juicy half peaches
on the napkin next to me, trying to hold
on to the faint glow of the late afternoon
before you are one step closer to radiant
cheekbones, velvet lipstick, a knot of
scratchy moods, wishing to be a girl in
the city, no longer curling into me like
a question as I whisper, one inch from
your ear, milky moon dripping over
the Barbie sheets, a litany of soft things.
Notes: ostropel de pui cu mămăliguță, pastramă, albă-ca-zăpadă, salată de vinete -Romanian dishes
must -grape juice
afumătoare -smokehouse
