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Preparation
This dish is to be prepared when you find yourself
alone on a late afternoon in mid-October. When
youve looked up from your book and found the
house you are in to be silent, but the comfortable sort
of silence that envelopes you and makes everything
alright.
There is sadness, but there is always a bit of sadness.
And today there is less. And so you prepare the
kitchen for cooking.
Put on the song Born To Be Blue by Chet Baker.
Note A
I knew a girl once
Whose hair was like bricks
Through my fingers.
And I never saw her heart
Save in the stories she told
And even then only a heart
Like words I was unfamiliar with.
She dreamed of nights
On cold steel
In boxcars heading east
To places where the banks of rivers
Rise to play among the reeds.
And where she could breathe
And listen to the sound of it all.
Note B
I am thinking of you in sky blue
Cotton panties
Wearing necklaces of junk and leather
That hang low on your chest
And the thoughts
They are suffocating
Note C
It was once and only once
That I knew I would always
Love you
And also that I would never
Have you
Save in hotel rooms
In Spokane
With wine and with bread
And with a limit to our time.
Note D
A train whistle has never sounded so melancholy.
I woke up this morning expecting you there next to
me. I had hoped you would come in during the night,
crawl in next to me, to warm yourself against the
cold. Instead I was tangled in my sheets, blurry-eyed
and with a head full of sleet, my door closing behind
an unseen phantom. And I knew it was you leaving
for the train yard.
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Note E
And so we drank.
We drank as though it were not a privilege
But a right.
We drank as if each of us had fought
A battle wholly personal
And of, and only of, the individual.
A war waged on the phantoms
Of the past
And on a future both longed for
And ridiculed.
We had returned victorious,
Each of us in turn,
And together we drank.
And above all else,
We drank.
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Note F
She wrote me notes
That frayed at the edges
In my pockets.
I have lost all of her notes,
Pages she wrote,
Letters to the world
Written in words that shook with her fury.
I let them fall between car seats
Lost and forgotten
Because she never told me
That I was to hold them for her.
And so I only thought of them
As passed notes in a hallway
That as she passed by
Her hand would meet mine
And inside
A folded note.
Her hands were hard, marked with charcoal,
And they held firmly onto my hands.
Her thumb would play with my thumb
When she was nervous.
Her father waited outside our school
With friends and a baseball bat
And I ran to my car
For she was his, and no one elses.
I dont remember her name.
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Note G
Every sweet nothing I have ever said was for you.
You see this written in the margins of the recipe.
It is best that you ignore this
For no other reason
Than to forget, forget, forget
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