LAUREL
Pre-fermentation
as in taking the heart
and body spread open
left under the sun,
the dough under clean
sheets on the bed, rising.
Mix the starter and
knead, stretch. Left till proven.
After leaving his arms
at the witching hours
I dive to the old kitchen
for more pastoral service.
There’s some bossa nova
playing low in the back of
my mind, his body on linen
sheets like beach sand as if
sun-tanning. He sleeps, an
emperor almighty in his solar
beauty, swaying. There will be
music in the morning as scent
of baking bread, when
the sun has already risen,
the music of olive tree leaves
bouncing as laurels. I go
forth to the kitchen, even
bare-chested, the tree
bough reflected on the
fishbowl, almost full moon
in August, I embrace the
waters, like a fish dancing in
the afterglow. Outside the window
nymphs, crickets and cicadas
singing far in the meadows.
Turkish dried figs, sweet sour
on the tongue, sun granulated.
Semolina on the loaf,
flour all over the bough
on my chest, early stains.
He wakes with the sun,
the bread ready to bak
NUPTIALS
Neptune goes direct
when I get a message
from you. An invitation
to a book launch. Last
time we’ve met you were
shiny and simply dashing
so expressive among
the folks and gents at
another book launch,
and all I could glimpse
under your formal attire
was how you always
looked better casually
allowing me to strip you
off. I remember
wondering how many
of those invitees
knew your skin,
bare and smooth,
the notes
on your torso,
the Latinisms
on your touch.
You signing the books
and posing for pictures
the book shelves
breathing plurality.
I go out for a cig
and come back
when Neptune does
its direct circle.
Vico reminds me
it’s already morning
as he paws
the mattress calling
me reviving past
habits. A time
we were constant:
tone changing
according to
the exact taste
of sweat
on a matinée.
Hedonism,
you might say.
I might
have agreed.
