Thursday, August 4, 2011

reading Foucault while making spaghetti

reading Foucault while making spaghetti


i stand beside the stove
reading from The Foucault Reader
and glance into the pot boiling

the spaghetti dancing tendrils
like some sea creature against the current
and i think of you

although that isn’t true
every time i say it
any time i say it

i think of how you have come to be
a mirror for me to see the me
who failed you like a historical marker

and i pull up recollections
recreations of me kissing you:
that’s true but with a revision

recreations of you kissing me
this story of my past unhinged
and clapping against the wall

Foucault’s bespectacled cover photograph
is not Foucault anymore than his words
as you in my memory are no longer you

and i am not the lines and stanzas here
or the person who failed in loving you
and is left only with the history of us

i am he trapped here in the octopus arms
of wishing you’d return to me in these ashes
blossoming like pinot noir grapes for wine

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