by Antonis Katsouris
On the door of my refrigerator colored
magnetic letters form once again
Robert Indiana’s LOVE.
Cress, curry, coriander
and oregano, salt, and white pepper,
chili, clove and cinnamon.
With the coffee filters, the ashes,
the withered flowers, I throw in the trash
your farewell letter too.
On the fried breakfast egg,
my yellow heart, and all around my
slightly burnt white fate. . .
And Mary, who is drunk again, fixes
her lipstick while holding the kitchen knife
as a real mirror.
I look again for something to cook for us
at Betty Crocker’s recipe book “Just the Two of Us”
and I expect you for dinner. . .
And the faucet is leaking and leaking
to remind me of the small repairs
that I need to make in my life. . .
I look at the dirty dishes of our failed
tête-à-tête … For the last time, I say to myself,
before I begin to wash them. . .
The housewife’s vanity;
to rise to the occasion, wearing
my favorite apron.
On the table a still life with fruit,
flowers and two magazines to remind me of
Wolfgang Tillmans; or, perhaps, Jack Pierson?
I place two ice cubes into your drink
and I melt as they melt thinking of you
in the next room…
I’m looking at my collection of
twelve different plates and I think
I’ve found the most beautiful…
(in my kitchen
I always know
who I am. . .)