Kitchen passions

Sweat streaks down
Brow and between breasts
As fingers hold firm
The redness of pimiento
And the cleaver chops
Its way across forests
Of broccoli and cauliflower,
Decapitates cabbages,
Sunders chicken meat
And chicken livers.

Heat from fire sizzles
Oil fragrant with garlic,
Onions, pinches of spice.
Tomatoes wilt above the flames
As the wok dances in choreography
Guided by a hungry hand,
Partnered by a large wooden spoon.

Her eyes cast away from the kitchen
To the man sitting quietly at his plate;
The rice boils in a steaming-pot
Making humid the air shimmering
Like a curtain of hot breath between them.

Here is my passion
Her eyes tell him with
Sweeping curl of sooty lashes.
Here is the love I have to give
Served up on a bed of hot
Buttered vegetables:
Green broccoli for truth,
Red peppers for fire,
Celadon cabbage for loyalty
And a creamy sauce
That will make you forget
All else but what sits
In your mouth.

You will forget all absences
In my presence, in this my homage.

Sweat streaks down
Brow and between pectorals
As his brown fingers hold firm
Spoon and fork and his face
Holds that moment of bliss,
Stretches it forever
As if carving into memory
This first mouthful.

Bon apetit, my love.