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.
| Prelude
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. |
|
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
Jazz
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
more.
Copyright ©
2004 Arlene Ang. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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