there is a
loaf of datenut bread on the table,
wrapped in waxed paper, a rubber band
around it. a fat man
comes in & out of the back room in his shorts.
the silence is noticiable. i mean, to one
who has lived for four yrs in apartments
facing on a courtyard where they shout
day & night, the silence is noticeable.
the children i am watching are asleep,
the doorbell will ring any minute,
i skim along, typing a libretto
by kenneth koch; avoiding detailed observation
of my emotional state (sic),
the i ching says
that the superior man knows the changes
So I go to
the kitchen
sink.
Perform the ritual
of washing.
I come to you
as you lie on the bed
the wet hands of a lover
used to failure
like crystal
slipping
from his grasp.
The effort
to bring together
bits of
flesh
She's not much for recipes. The bowl sometimes
invites her, and she oils it, cracks a duck egg
or two, throws in a bit of stock or well water,
maple syrup and leavening, and says to it:
sit there and I'll be back with something for you.
"Something" might be a beet leaf, or an apple,
or a spray of young mint -- once it was a whole
handful of chives. Chopped and thrown in,
the whatever might vanish under oats or rye,
buckwheat flour, or crumbs from the last loaf,
and then salt -- late, so as not to insult the yeast.
Last, she may tug the spelt barrel from beneath
the counter, and dip a porcelain bowl into
the cool brown powder five -- six -- seven
times. She stirs the makings between heaps
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll sit at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am