The dried kigelia tree sits oddly in the deserted sand,
one swaying cocoon on its lowest branch
moving as if a storm were approaching despite the still atmosphere.
A sagged-skinned boy stands, leaned to his right, staring into the silk wrapping
never moving his gaze as he dreams of the perfect symmetry
expressed in the wings of the growing insect inside.
The cactus and lit fire beside him would satiate his
body's will to live, if only he'd notice.
Instead, that said will of his physical nature
seems replaced by the fascination
or obsession
with what would possibly emerge from this
life he stares at.
Lavender, hint of chemical
this prestine smell she longed for in the morning.
Husband at work, she dressed in a billboard:
large, pastel patterns
her shape well hidden.
Five hours spent after routine hygiene for
crumbs, dust, occasional rust,
and dishes run once.
Setting the conventional for the heat required,
she retires to the ventilated back room, cigar lounge,
removing muscle tension in the way of musicians.
A spritz of spray to rid of odor,
the oven now ready for the evening smell.
"One must taste the tangy salt of lips before a meal,"
her past love whispered in a memory recalled.
His moist friction cleansing her palette
before supper every evening.
"One must taste the tangy salt of lips before a meal,"
she whispered to her husband now home from work,
scent of synthetic central air soaking his suit.
Two hours on the road and nine of calculations
leaves a brain battered,
but he continues stirring carefully
the pot prepared for his evening arrival.
Four peeled potatoes, cast-iron masher,
and his wife's secret blend measured by the ounce
to season five bites per serving, fitting snugly on plate
between the basil-topped peas
and tonight's main course:
"One broth-bathed turkey loaf,
sliced thinly and folded to soften its tough texture,"
she recalls the poetic of her past once more.
He spoke of meals as if they were family,
brushing her arm with each described taste.
"The potatoes are seasoned with herbs of my own,
stimulating each section of the tongue."
She noticed the spoon, bent flat for this purpose;
on the handle, a camellia for which she was named.
Table set in restaurant fare,
the fork on left held closed a card,
bearing the flower in respective design.
Upon opening, she noticed the handwritten notation ending in
"Happy Anniversary."
"Years may come in laboring fashion,
but the effort wanes every day I spend with you.
I hope to ease your stress and please
you more with time to come,"
she smiled to her wed,
floral-printed fork in hand.
A quick glance not to stare, a woman's eyes make contact with mine.
Pale blue as lines on paper, I remain frozen to perceive from peripheral.
Taking a seat two tables ahead, she now faced my averted gaze.
Her intention was unclear,
there were seats further available if that was her goal.
Could it be this stranger noticed shy behavior
and attempted to converse?
In false confidence, I lifted my shoulders and head to scan the room,
and take another glance.
She raised a fist to her mouth as a polite cough was released.
Certainly she was acknowledging my look
as a cough that gentle seemed more in purpose to clear the throat,
readying her voice to speak.
Now with hope, I gather my thoughts and prepare a few pleasantries.
I exhale the butterflies and peer in the direction of she,
who now speaks to a man taking seat at her table asking,
"Feel any better?"
I've written music and play occasionally, but lol recording.
