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.
