Poems

Cordon Bleu

Sieving coarse powder through a white colander,
she watches the light mellow in autumnal tones
through the afternoon window. She feels peaceful.

His face lies back at her from the bottom of a bowl.
She covers it with a hint of rosemary,
but can hardly remember what he looks like.

She expertly trims his heart,
soaks it in cold salt water for 30 minutes,
stuffs it with bay leaves and onions,
and fries it quickly with grated words.

His tongue is callous to cut,
so she pours over the garlic and chilli marinate
she's made to tenderise it - it will take time she knows,
but she's learnt patience over the years
and soon it's simmering in slices.

The light has faded by the time she's finished.
She carries the covered dish carefully
into the restaurant where they're all waiting.
‘What did you call it?’ they ask,
‘Mariage Marinade,’ she answers as she watches
the moon crescent a silver sky.

© 1995

[Published in Pause No. 46. Written as Linda Collins]