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Kitchen Bedroom
by Bob ArcaniaI strip you down like a chair. Somehow, you have too many legs.
The harsh glow of the kitchen lighting like lizards eyes
blinks at me from under the ovens hood.
You eat carrots, carrots and I have celery in my hands.
The lemon glow of the kitchen lighting like tired fists
pounding across the tiled floor dirtied by our gardens.
You eat carrots, carrots and I have an abscess in my hands and
broccoli for tomorrow. The spinach wilts.
Too many radishes dirtying the tiled floor,
the sink, clogged from when I shaved your head after bar close, overflows
broccoli; spinach wilting for tomorrow.
You told my sleep how beautiful it was for never waking.
The sink is fine. I clogged it when I shaved my head, overflowing
all the times you whispered into my navel your Sundays
you told my sleep how beautiful it was for never waking
and so I never woke.
You whispered all the times of the Sunday movies into my navel;
they cascaded onto the cutting board with the tomatoes.
And so I always wake, never
to the rustling of your rhubarb leaves. They were so red.
Cascading tomatoes onto the ripened cutting board,
the oven is blinking from under its hood
to rustling of your rhubarb red. They were so delicious.
I strip you down like a chair and, still, you have too many legs.
03/27/2008 Author's Note: something about love and vegetables...
my attempt at a pantoum. recycled some lines from other poems. oh well.
Posted on 03/27/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 03/27/08 at 03:38 PM I've never experienced anything quite like this. Extremely interesting imagery, though I don't quite know what to make of what I "see". I think I did get a glimer, though, from the "you eat carrots, carrots..." vs. what you had in your hands lines. Glad I stumbled across it. |
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