sixteen

an image of the fragrance
of oregano, as i dream
neverending pasta dreams, meat
conspicuously absent, dragging
with strings of cheese
attached

to spicy memories coughed
up like too much anise
or liquorice, sickly
sweet, with a tinge of balsamic vinegar
in their wake

bitter
recollections, reeking of things
half-forgotten, intensely
unforgiven and cold,
cold like yesterday’s smoke
on the kitchen wall

the bubbling
splashes and pops, and stores
somewhere inside, another
fragment fried up
on a string
till brittle.

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