Clay D. Matthews
Presentation
Mid-afternoon in the kitchen,
and I am crushing garlic
with the flat of a knife,
careful not to cut
béchamel skin, a pinch of nutmeg.
How many knife wounds have cleaned out the throat
like the meat of a bell pepper?
Sometimes when she is close to me
her breath comes in like a draft from the ocean,
salty, a jar of Spanish olives,
and I want to lay her down on a bed, grind
black, white, red pepper into her mouth.
I have the appetite of a vowel,
the hunger of an iron skillet.
I could put butter on a mirror, and call it a meal.
Onions melt in a frying pan,
and in the sound
I hear the garlic burn.
She kisses me thank you for dinner—
a taste on the tongue
too bitter for a mouth to hold.
