Stephen Murabito
Magnificent in the echoing kitchen,
After all the scaloppine and cacciatore,
The manicotti, the ziti, the fried fish specials,
My muse says, Olympus? That sounds Greek,
And words against stacks of pots and pans,
She's off, telling me about the Zavolos family,
How they would have her over Sundays for lamb,
How Mrs. Zavolos crafted the rich baklava,
But how the youngest boy, Freddy, was wild
With the girls, breaking his mother's heart
To death the night they arrested him
Inside Doyle's Camera Shoppe downtown.
My muse turns up the one burner, her hands
Never still, hot peppers dancing in oil and garlic,
Her voice meshing with the sizzling pan
But disappearing into the droning fan:
Honey, there are cold Gennies in the fridge.
There's bread; I sliced it fresh just now.
And look, I bought you a few nice cigars,
But try not to smoke too much, okay?
My muse never sits: She leans, humming
Against the table as she watches me eat.
Bread, peppers, shrimp, linguine, beer: Her
Rhythm, color, and art bloom from my plate.
Under the heating lamps, she reads my poems,
Whispering words to the empty kitchen:
They fall into and fill every pot and pan,
Every spent plate, every last fork and spoon.
This is her gift to me, and I love the grease
Stains glistening where she's held each page.
My muse puts three pencils in my pocket,
And places a tomato and olive salad on top
Of the folded poems: These are good, she says.
Then the one piece of ricotta cheesecake:
I been worrying over it all day, Stevie.
I couldn't get the fresh cream from Taylor's,
And that damned oven still ain't right, I swear.
This is, of course, proof on the tongue, that songs
Exist that we cannot hear, that beauty
Will never let us name her completely,
That we need a language we don't yet own
To name ourselves dumb before dream and time.
Finally, the last ancient pot hung to dry,
She sits and sips the cold Genesee
Tommy and Murph send back from the bar.
Those are good pencils, she says; wear them down.
And that's all she says. As I leave, she has
A last smoke before I know she'll get up, nod
Kindly over her kitchen, and turn to hit the lights.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Stephen Murabito
This poem is from the book Communion of Asiago (unpublished).
Selections from this big collection make up the chapbook
A Little Dinner Music, which is forthcoming in May
from Parallel Press.