|
Divided tongues
by Jim BenzRehearse, if you will. Eat slowly. I mean,
mangez lentement. Where was the meal
that you mentioned? I am learning to cook.
Did I recite "I am a saint and a drifter"?
Ceci ne rend pas le bouillon amer.
Not unintelligent or unthinkable. I dreamt
of Alpaca. At the front door. It was neither turkey
bones nor eating. It was yesterday. Its eyes
were sentient and disturbing. I felt a draft.
"There is nothing to chew because if it were chewed
it would be chewed over."
I am learning to boil potatoes. You
are cooking in French. Une tasse
d'aubergine coupée. A knife kissing a fork.
We smile. You are radiant.
You hate to swallow what I have eaten.
The female child was gifted. She had no choice.
Avez-vous mangé la corneille noire ?
We have forgotten our reason for living
by the kitchen window (a question of manners.) 12/02/2009 Author's Note: published in Full of Crow, July 2010
Posted on 12/02/2009
Copyright © 2024 Jim Benz
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 12/03/09 at 04:50 PM The mingling of languages is a magnet. You always captivate, like jasmine in a garden: your writing. |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 12/10/09 at 11:51 PM Most salacious, replete with a forking tongue (talking fun)
[Is this the fabled 'beige' place?]
:>) |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/27/09 at 03:36 PM Marvelous POTD! Thank you. |
|
