The cauliflower is overcooked again.
Our pots and pans are rusting overnight
inside a bad appliance. Angled right,
there's Jesus in the caked-on food. Amen.
Now scrape his face into the sink, and then
pour out the rancid wine we bought the night
I thought we'd split it. After this, we might
get Chinese food. It's just a case of when.
There's nothing living in the standing water.
At ten, I place the dishes from the sink
in plastic pews, and cycle Sunday's daughter.
She's smudged with grace. With each ecstatic clink,
the routine kitchen eschaton gets hotter
and, rapturous, we scoot back from the brink.
1 comment:
For a poem, something about it makes it irresistible, but I can't immediately put my finger on what that is. Fascinating with delightful imagery and a slam on Christianity I can't really stomach excepting the wreck the prevalent modern gospel has made of it somehow weakly excuses this by halves.
As for sonneteering as per the title of this inviting blog, what happened in the year of a challenge to write one of those lofty pieces a day that on the 240th it appears unrelated to the thing itself, although a lovely piece to mull?
I appreciate how graciously forgiving you are to my abrasive responses. I quite enjoyed this piece, but am uncertain what, besides an excellent poem, to classify or label it as.
ttfn,
Jenny
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