I am always in love, she said. I’m in love with the greengrocer,
the fishmonger, the hygienist – a boy who scrapes and swirls
that sucking tube. How could I not love him? The fallen republic
inside my mouth he surveys and yet is pleasant. Acts like nothing
is amiss. A civility those seeking romance would do well to polish.
God is in the gestures. Observe the postman’s daily wave,
its corkscrew twist. Its hermeneutics of cheer cranks my heart
to the cockles. The postman, deeply intuitive, senses the need for drama
in deliveries. Then there’s the fishmonger. The exotic cut of trout
he wrapped for me, I’d gotten the same fish as any regular citizen
before that. I’m his special project, now. I love the fishmonger,
his sleeves rolled high, his corded arms, their dark, salted hairs.
Trout is the fish of love. I eat it with complex salads. The greengrocer
asked, ‘what do you seek, fair lady’? ‘Arugula’, I said, and after that
I was in love. I dine on trout and sturdy greens and fill my teeth
in order to recline once more in the hygienist’s chair. This is the cycle
love is. It’s the only way to live. Open yourself to love.
Keep your cockles cranked, your mouth ajar.
Published On: February 14, 2008
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/080214g.htm