An Ode to Plain Pasta, and to You

We always begin with a clean slate.

A limpid looking glass, almost too heavy to hold.

A metallic prison holding only the fear that I will let it spill,

And leave it empty again

So I set it down, for now.

I can’t bear to leave that mirror in its unsullied state

So I surrender to some awful compulsion--

Hunger, maybe--

And I add what needs to be added

And I do what must be done

And I say nothing

But suddenly I’m gazing at you instead of at myself

I remember reading, a long time ago, in some horrible book that I’ve forgotten now

The slower you boil a frog, the less likely it is to realise it may be in danger

The quicker I show you how I feel, the more likely you are to realise, and the more danger I am in.

So I start with medium heat.

I’ve never been one to stir the pot.

For a moment or two, I let myself admire it,

Admire you.

Not from afar, as I’m accustomed to, but from right there

Seething beneath the surface, ripples and muttering blending together.
I could do nothing but watch and listen for hours.

But this, too, is temporary.

So I disturb this symphony of air and water and foam, and I stir.

I can’t breathe when I’m near you

But today I’ll pretend that it’s just because

I’m Mummified in the strips of clear steam you emanate--

And I wish I could give in,

I wish I could just let myself burn alive, my love,

But I can’t right now, not yet

So I stay, here with you, and I wait.

An age passes,

And I wonder what I’ve earned by suffering

And I tamp down the itch that tells me I should have started sooner

And I know that One Day Soon I will have to rouse myself from my reverie and expose those submerged feelings

To the cool air

Because nothing can stay beneath the bubbling surface forever.

But I wait.

And I wait because I know that This, at least, will turn out as I want it to.

Because I followed the instructions on the box.

Because I can be certain that I have all the right ingredients, few as they may be.

Because for once I know that I’ve done everything right.

And So I Wait.
I wait for you to soften for a moment

So I can draw you out from your leaden shell

And feel the clinging spurs of my metallic bones

Entwined in the al dente strands of your hair, you angel.

And my stomach settles,

And I breathe.

And when next I see you--
You, not grain and sauce but flesh and blood--

I won’t tell you about the butterflies in my stomach.
They’re naught but wheat and water.