A painting of oxblood vales
Hung long before the time of leaf
blowers
In this dark fourchette
Streets rise to bring it in
The island is gloved in clouds
Congealed fog over Crete and
Ashes dusting the sky’s forehead
Scales blow from the old inn
As the fish stare up from the
sink
The turbulent Aegean a few miles
below
A candelabra burns close to the
curtain
Out the two-way window
The tower in the distance tilts
The table is set with Demeter
silver
Slightly tarnished
A baby floats the kelp atmosphere
Inside of the cook
She’s in a kitchen painted with
sponges
Roasting wild dream
And potatoes with nails inside
She crosses herself and serves
the food
Spirit voices travel up the
curtain pulls
In the dining room
And are forced through the upper
register
There are truffles filled with
liquid
In a small heart-shaped coffin
And a taped silence that sounds
like snow
The long awaited knowing
That comes slicing through water
The fish that runs like a dream
And puffs like a laboring woman
Digging up roots in the terraced
garden
Onions and turnips for placenta
stew
Fluid drapes the mountain and
tower
The baby turns toward the spine
Against the incoming cold front
The mother’s gloves hang on a
nail
And a cross hangs down her back
The icehouse burned down a long
time ago
There is one plank left
And she walks out to the edge
And sees the tables nailed to the
sloping street
While in the kitchen the doves
are roasting
She goes back to gutting fish
And simmering red sauce
A spider swings out on a silk
strand
Into her hair
The flesh is tender
But the spirit tough and full of
strings
