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Friday, February 15, 2013

Poem written in my wife's absence


Batching
for Jeanette

 

The price of being alone.

The littlest saucepan is getting

a work over. I cook with it,

wash it, and use it for

the next meal. Then the one

after. I’ll burn its handles down

to an image of you. My surgeon

practises with the spaghetti scoop,

sauce like laughter from his smile.

He turns a few pages of skin

and the cauliflower curls up in disgust.

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