Cooked At A Different Temperatures
The topic of love has been left
to the dark yellow hit machines
of the popular movie making magic
and muscle bound music of a marketing
moose going down the street asking
for what everyone wants to hear. We
speak into his left antler that, for all
purposes, looks like an ancient ear. He chews
on the data and hums the same old
six chords of girl meets boy,
boy meets girl or the loss of one
or the other. Where are the women?
And the men? Are you game, the moose
says. But imagine if the only food
worth eating was malted milk shake
of bubble gum. Would it be worth
the cavities? The body needs
more that the occasional nod to youth.
This is why I sing of my wife.
The slowly rolled sushi has to be
cut into six pieces. Six degrees
of finding the delight in avocado
mixing with crab and jasmine rice
and wrapped tightly. And what of
the roasted meat with its own juices
which simmer in the daily making
of a life together. The drama
of love goes beyond a large
animal meandering down the street.
I mean to celebrate the moments
after yes, and I do and it has
been ten years, really, wow
that was fast. There is more
to love than being game. Like
the time we went to Germany
and tour the Castles of the Mad
King of Bavariam the same Disney
Flattened like corn masa
on the griddle making for easy
on the palette tortillas. Read Galway
Kinnell into a night of caressing.
The table is being set, the movie
is finished its mass run of theaters,
and the moose’s music melody
too simple. Well, let us be
an us in our praying bones.