The Perfect Crust

1.
The aromas from the kitchen –
smoke-encrusted pies, delicious things
crafted with despair.

You bake into them with malice
foresight and precision
the craving for somebody else;

I marinate in wrath, stew in resentment,
and become inedible, indelibly salted.

2.
The gifts you gave me:
slamming doors and the roar of thunder
without the lightning;
cirrostratus spelling “danger, beware”
in the shape of your name;
the glass-eyed stare
of your fear-drunk mother.
Yet you wondered why.

3.
A whisper, a melody of ferocious odes:
courtesan for the gods, the seducer-assassin
brandishing Holofernes’ head,

leading the naked hunt, as legs and arrows splay
whatsoever way this hunted man runs.

You, my queen of king and country,
wage wars of seduction with knives
and kohl-rimmed eyes.

4.
Mingled hearts, your pain now the underside of mine
when it could have been the reverse. 
So of what use is a fountain of youth,
or fatted calves, stone tablets or Midas’ touch,
except as purveyors of embitterment,
Kryptonite dressed in “I love you’s?”

5.
“Please don’t pass me by
and pretend to see nothing.
Please, help me get her back,” he begged.

Embarrassing for both him and I,
two sober gentleman of a certain age

Boring though well-dressed in togs that speak
of means enough to buy affection.

6.
My hunger for her spiced the succulent goods
that decorated the granite countertops.
How could you not have known, tasting what I fed you?
But your shock, reflected in the gleaming chrome surfaces,
escaped into the electric coils of the stove,
drowned out the refrigerator's contented hum,
mourning an idea of happiness that was yours alone.