Andrea O'Rourke



Nocturne in Black, and Lacy-Red Arils of Nutmeg  
 
The elm casts a shadow on the lawn like a hunter carrying
 
limp-neck geese. I’m baking greens with cherry tomatoes,
   russet potatoes with orange peppers for tomorrow.
 
It’s not what these hands look after and put together,
   but the mind that resembles a butcher’s counter—
      game breasts fingered, hollowed, cleaned.
 
I watch these hands I don’t know: they wipe the silver knives,
   roll the pin across pine nuts sealed in a clear plastic bag,
       cook crates of currants down into dark spoonfuls,
 
they crush cloves, break the mace blades, stamp the yellow
   out of lemons, lay black sesame seeds on rising buns,
 
they, two grieving fools, freeze it all, mime a tale of your return.




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