A Dish from Him
The dish is beige on creme
It has a pleasing hand made look
I see it every day
It is beside me when I cook
Sometimes a garlic sits in it.... an unused onion
Or half a fig.
The way we parted was not good..
That ginger stubble grin
The pallor of the skin
The fawning matriarchs made a mold of him.
They polished him too bright
To be a whimsy star in life’s vast universe..
His father never did appear.
...the van Gogh room he’d read about
The home made bed
We lay in that strange pre-fab house
Waves crashing on the beach outside
The ocean slapping through the night
Almost a lullaby
We ate weird fish and cherries
A huge oil painting looming
In the muted light ...the salt lamp
Lit for night.
A man encased in fantasy
Unknowing of the world
He moved in shadows well
He did his best to pull me in....
We never got to Venice.
I went alone.
It was too late... he found me gone.
The kitchen dish is nice .
Kristine Byrne Sept. 2013