|Jul/Aug 2010 Poetry|
Scent of sea rain, slab of ahi tuna... I give it a splash of soy sauce, a sprinkle of black sesame and cracked pepper, and onto the searing basalt it goes: it could be anyone's heart, anyone's loss. A quick turn, and off it comes. I slice into the dense flesh: the crust warm, the center still as raw and cold as the ocean it swam in this morning. No wasabi is needed; it is perfect as it is with a glass of Chardonnay. Tomorrow, I will come home with a Pinot Grigio from Napa, and I will feast on scallops with arugula—and it will continue like this, until every part of her is gone.
He is there every Sunday, alone, pushing his cart filled with the burdens of seven days and seven nights. Accumulations have crippled him; you've seen his scuff on the salted floor of aisle six. You've seen him peering through cold windows, checking expirations; and at the register, searching his wallet for a missing coupon. You've seen him in the parking lot, too, in the spaces between raindrops, and shuffling home through that copse of pines just over there, past the pavement. He seems so harmless, now: one more broken body at the grocery store. Someday, you will have the courage to approach him—and perhaps, looking into the mirror of your eyes, he will finally collapse into nothingness.