In the world of
black and white,
there is . . .
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Spaghetti Dinner
-by Mark Wilhelm
It
was October
I
smelled the change in the air
When
I answered the front door
‘Smell
that?’ she asked,
tossing
aside her cigarette,
inhaling
the Autumn air deeply.
‘Yeah,’
I said quietly, ‘it’s great, isn’t it.’
As
we walked into the kitchen
The
smell of pasta replaced that of autumnal death
‘Smells
good in here, too’ she said
and
I, caught in the scented trailer
of
the wake of her perfume, agreed.
Lori
jump-sat onto the kitchen counter, her
Legs
dangling, not reaching the floor, her
Hair
falling behind, not reaching her
Shoulders.
She lit another smoke and asked,
‘Need
any help?’ Her exhaled smoke
became
a visible consonant in the air
as
her tongue touching her teeth
to
pronounce the letter ‘n’ blocked its flow.
‘No’,
I answered, lighting my own
watching
as our smoke rose and danced together
in
the steam above the pot on the stove.
The
stream fogged the kitchen window
Lori
drew there in pale deft finger
A
blossom whose outline was clarity
Whose
substance was clouded moisture
Then
she erased it,
Wrote
the words ‘spaghetti steam,’ and laughed/
I
sighed the smoke from my lungs,
I
had always tried to own that laughter.
Lori
opened the window a notch
And
the air came in
Chasing
the smoke and steam
Wiping
away on the window
Not
the words, but the condensation that defined them.
Fresh
air vied with the smell of spaghetti
For
the odor of the room,
Copyright©2000 Carrie Michael