Mind Caviar Poetry

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Drexel Online Journal, Triplopia, Tryst and Tattoo Highway. An e-chapbook of her poetry, Dirt Therapy is being hosted by Slow Trains.

Illustration by Claudio Parentela Visit his gallery online.


Cold-pressed extra-virgin
olive oil, white wine,
garlic. The large pan,
a Teflon bed, or rather
dark parquet. My husband
looms over the gas stove,
starts the fire. When
the mussels are cast,
they crackle in protest
at first. Then steam before
breaking open like black
crotchless panties. I enjoy
the scene over chaste sips
of Prosecco, think of lime,
patiently await my turn
after he's done cooking.

Claudio Parentela
Copyright  ©  2004 Arlene Ang. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

In the Moon Over Uluru Grill

Some days I'm just not here. The stainless
kitchen mists from stir-fry. There are
three sous chefs from Mumbai busy
with crisping baby Baramundi in deep oil.

Vegetables dance in my wok and it's
Sri Lanka all over again: you are telluric
with spices while I generate heat
on your skin with ninety-two strokes.

The Alamein prep cook stoops to collect
the julienne strips around my feet,
her buttocks distracting as the stain
on her uniform, like wine on your lingerie.

I'm from Taranaki myself; you never let me
forget that. Eighteen years without
a woman, just sounding rugby matches on tv,
economical beer, scraping feline excrement.

Cleopatra never scratches like you,
or kneads my neck in the station wagon.
I have always been too rational, but fifty-six
hours in a motel room can remake a man.

Smoke alarm whistles, I turn to the soup.
Bush tomatoes cannot compare to your flavor
when the ceiling fan stirs your bed scent,
the faulty rotator clicking with the springs.

After your lips, the quandong sauce is insipid
to taste. Even kangaroo meat implicates my hands.
Twenty-six taciturn eyes watch me fondle
raw flesh. In my mind, you come. Again and again.

Copyright  ©  2004 Arlene Ang. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

Tetractys Blues

was where
I went wrong,
should have known she
preferred heavy metal, grilled steak, hot sauce.
High on stilettos, she broke my trumpet,
tied me to the
chair while I
crooned for

Copyright  ©  2004 Arlene Ang. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.

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