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

Mole

In the Natural World

LAWRENCE RAAB
Animals dream, but of what we do not know… / Maybe some think back, / maybe others regret. But what about guilt? / Does it play a part in their kingdom? / …In one night / moles can dig tunnels 300 feet long, / while all that time we’re awake / brooding about the future…

great smoky mountains national park

The Little River

SUSAN HARLAN
The Little River isn’t very little or rather/ I don’t know what it is little in relationship to./ By the bank the water is smooth as paper/ but in the middle my sneakered feet are unsteady/ pulled by the current.

The busy streets of New York City.

Four Poems from New York City

SEAN SINGER
Tonight in the taxi I drove four women from a bachelorette party complete with their tiaras and feathers to another bar. Already happy, they pushed the soon-to-be-bride forward and she asked me how I thought she looked. / I was too taken aback to answer...