Whatever recipe there might be
will include last night’s conversation,
the way we talked round and into
the depths of the dish, across the table
where hours didn’t count. Tonight
begs for fire to counter emptiness,
that hunger for continuation
and all the sparks your arguments
sent ceiling-wards. Last night
the candles paused their flickering to bend
into your flames. The smoke lingered,
hanging around for the ending,
hoping it wouldn’t come too soon,
that it wouldn’t fizzle out. The leftovers
found their eventual corner, shut away
and sulking in the fridge. Today,
here they are, shrunk into themselves
as though they can’t face daylight.
Can they be coaxed into company,
warmed back into something like life,
spicy and renewed? All the ingredients
only waiting for the human touch.

 

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From Magma 94

 

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