Domestic Angel

Wedged between stove and deep
freeze, I dream domestic,
tend herbs and poetry, snip
sage and Sexton, pick
parsley and Plath. I draw
lists as long as spaghettini, cook
soups and poems from scratch
of cabbage and snatched lines. I slice
onions into pale halos, moon rings
as round as cherubims' mouths singing, singing,
singing slick commercial jingles. They feed
me lines as I feed one man's
needs, his growing appetite.

I set the table for a feast,
light candles for this
ritual. The small gold flames leap
from matchstick to wick, a blushing
wine heats the space within us.

Words melt on my tongue
like the memory of something
familiar, vanilla or mace, the lingering
tastes. I forget the price of
bliss is silence.

Sylvie Bourassa
Montreal, Ouebec