Briseus is just another ante in war
Briseus comes through the kitchen, the back
door, stepping out of her
shoes and into shoes left at the front
by a narrow tendon she saw leaving.
She never cooked lobster bisque
I don’t look into the lobster’s eyes waving on stalks.
Or Agamemnon when he leaves the lights on.
The little shoes have no backs and click,
click on the slate floor between cutting
board and steel stove. Olive oil, a vine-ripened
tomato, garlic, lots of garlic until it’s in her
pores like patchouli, fresh
tarragon and thyme…peppercorns.
Briseus loves language she can eat.
Agamemnon walks in red mud on my clean floors,
piles armor like another man on the couch.
Leaves stains I don’t want to think about.
The yellow Corvair parked in the driveway,
the bobtail cat perched on the porch rail
save her in the rain
when she can’t go anywhere at any speed.
Briseus measures brandy and sherry,
simmers the delicate green tomalley,
mourns a little the sacs of roe.
It’s so much work not killing yourself.