You acquiesce gorgeously
laugh-sigh, rub of marinade
I know what to do with garlic
you there, pass the tongs
I was like Mother Rusch
beating the grime out of tripe and lung
Wine punt foggy
spoon bent but don’t remember how
(I know it was you)
During your “German” phase you sent me to work
2 x 8 oz frozen tilapia
Salt, grass, leaves
a bag of saffron a mother gives you for holiday
– thaw in package for safety
– make yellow with fire in pan
*best garnished with cold cabbage and sometimes found with bread
We fell in love to the cook’s kisses back when our faucets had no handles
you were OPITZ, scene right
and I AGNES, scene left
a kitchen between us
OPITZ: Just grab the wrench and use it and then it’s done, it’s not a big deal.
AGNES: Morning is a sedative and I am a debtor to your liquor.
Marie left us quietly and until we found the bottle under our mattress we were convinced she had
taken it with her and that made us laugh.
Imagine a wily Brooklyn teenager with a dent in her paw ready to fight.
I would have found her for you,
and I would have fixed our faucet
but we packed our things,
dishes still warm on the counter
your sunken loaf atop our desk
you insisted we turn the car around to find it and I said no
Marie said no, too, and if there’s anything I regret
more than bread it’s that I never did apologize
I imagine her,
writhing atop a marble counter:
There are things I saved in these cabinets. Where are they?
Victoria Suds is a poet and sweet tooth living in New York. Her work has appeared in 12th St, QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking and Maggi Peyton Gallery. She studies poetry at The New School.
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