Alone with the Artichokes

I can't believe that of all things
It's me and these artichokes in the dark,
No early morning light, no last-minute

Preparations, April's anxious hands
Tucking the tin foil around the rim.
No, these leftover artichokes soak,

The oil separating into small pools
Like sparkling glasses of Galliano.
The vinegar coils into red pockets

Of bitterness that sting the tongue
Like the memory of sour words.
I can't believe that I've taken

The lion's share of everything
From everyone in my entire life,
But that's what she said.

Yes, I forgot April's birthday party
And went to a clambake in Fulton,
Eating all day with pumpkin-gutted men.

Drinking Molson drafts, I forgot the whole thing.
The minutes became dozens of oysters,
Shrimp, clams, friends with our bullshit stories.

And all day, she waited here for me,
Moving in this darkening kitchen,
Stirring these quartered, soaking hearts.

Copyright © 2006 Stephen Murabito All rights reserved
from Communion of Asiago
Star cloud Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission