Mons of Luke al Dente

by COLIN CHANNER

Basil from a pot on the veranda,
over-priced pinoli and pimientos
pressured into dust,
brassy olio from TJ’s rumored virgin,
Greek alleged,
Israeli sea salt from Whole Foods
and Parmigiano-Reggiano
from that shoppe in Wayland Square
where la señora with the Spanish speaking helper
and the bum preserved by lunges
reaches from her core
for briny lemons brie and sausage
taut ficelle flown in from Orly and loose tea.

To pestle proper is a patience.
Squelching herbs and oil without no spillage
stone to stone is zazen for the savage,
koan in practice, jag belief.

If you did deh-deh babylove I woulda feed you,
fess up to the slip up with the garlic
as we lapse in chairs out-folded on the pout
projecting from this brick face building
where in daytime June-tucked herbs
in earthen gardens get full dandy for the sun.

If you did deh-deh babylove yours would be
bow ties pesto-dyed. Bow ties and Torrontes,
Mendocino short of gelid, pampas golden sipped in spate.

That slab table from the TIFF you joked off
as “enbuttered with thick books” I am there now,
taking succor in a mons of luke al dente
as I doodle and address pink Post-its like postcards.

I mammer to your belly’ s ear hole
as you do your what-you-do there
in your way-off near-far town.

Did you think a year would pass
before I got the what of what you wrote of
of the lemons? How when fixed in salt
they tang the tongue?

Tonight I cleared a spot, annulled my mustache.

Have a bowtie.
Let this salt and sour wince you.

Spring a nib of pee.

 

[Purchase Issue 14 here.]

Colin Channer was born in Kingston, Jamaica. He was educated there and in New York. His most recent book is the poetry collection Providential. 

Isabel MeyersMons of Luke al Dente

Related Posts

feature

Poetry and Democracy: Part Two

MEGAN FERNANDES
White people don’t like when
you say:
white people.
White people
like to remind you
that you are Indian, not black.
Black people
never say that to you.

skyline

Three Torabully Translations

KHAL TORABULLY
Only a gashed murmur of gangue / remains at this crossroads of salts. / I notice the sharp-edged tattoo / of a forked harpoon when my memory festers. / In the black of dawn, pure métisse, / my uprooted flesh will no longer give respite to exiles. / And my life’s only protector is Death.

feature

Poetry and Democracy: Part One

Lawrence Joseph and Vievee Francis
He will dream/ into existence a raft, a rocket, a fort of mud./ From a cloud/ a gift of horses./ From the sandcastle and moat,/ kingdom and cause. Every boy knows he is a lone king,/ that above hover dragons/ from which he cannot withdraw