Amy Trussell



A painting of oxblood vales

Hung long before the time of leaf blowers

In this dark fourchette

Streets rise to bring it in

The island is gloved in clouds

Congealed fog over Crete and

Ashes dusting the sky’s forehead

Scales blow from the old inn

As the fish stare up from the sink

The turbulent Aegean a few miles below

A candelabra burns close to the curtain

Out the two-way window

The tower in the distance tilts

The table is set with Demeter silver

Slightly tarnished

A baby floats the kelp atmosphere

Inside of the cook

She’s in a kitchen painted with sponges

Roasting wild dream

And potatoes with nails inside

She crosses herself and serves the food

Spirit voices travel up the curtain pulls

In the dining room

And are forced through the upper register

There are truffles filled with liquid

In a small heart-shaped coffin

And a taped silence that sounds like snow

The long awaited knowing

That comes slicing through water

The fish that runs like a dream

And puffs like a laboring woman

Digging up roots in the terraced garden

Onions and turnips for placenta stew

Fluid drapes the mountain and tower

The baby turns toward the spine

Against the incoming cold front

The mother’s gloves hang on a nail

And a cross hangs down her back

The icehouse burned down a long time ago

There is one plank left

And she walks out to the edge

And sees the tables nailed to the sloping street

While in the kitchen the doves are roasting

She goes back to gutting fish

And simmering red sauce

A spider swings out on a silk strand

Into her hair

The flesh is tender

But the spirit tough and full of strings

Copyright © 2003 Amy Trussell.  All Rights Reserved.

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