Visions of Lamb Cooked in Slight Brine
The orange rings of the heating element should have been comforting: they were not.
There are flies here. And the smell of my hair as it burns.
On the phone, my mother. She’s teaching me to soak the lamb in vinegar for two days to remove all taste of lamb.
This isn’t a dream or a fire drill without a fire escape.
The carrots and potatoes change the meat even as the meat changes the carrots and potatoes.
I put on weight to occupy the kitchen in a wifely manner.
On the fridge, a brown note: Rings were invented to survive the fingers that wore them.
It’s about time to turn on Barry Manilow and crack some walnuts, like an adult.
We were a couple — we had a smoke alarm installed in the kitchen to bring us news of imminent death.
I should have been more careful when I dedicated my entire life to your own image.
Downtown, the sad Satanists convention was letting out and the weekend watercolorists were signing up for rooms and privileges.
It didn’t take me long to know I didn’t fit in.
The short bus trip was a miracle and only ten minutes late.
Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but the folk guitar sounds here are clearly outnumbering soothing biblical phrases.
Consider that tree and that sidewalk and pray for some lightning.
Behold: mustard (after the meat).
Who could have thought after these many years our most mundane remarks would outlast our affections.
We communicated almost solely through T-shirts, reading them out loud to each other, to the tune of My Darling Clementine.
Without unhappiness, how do we know we actually exist?
For process notes, see “In retrospect, 1984 made a fine sausage“