(I wrote these several years ago after reading the Odes of Pablo Neruda, which celebrate life's ordinary pleasures.)
Ode to Cleanser
I try to forget you, hide you under the sink
Till the ring in the toilet brings you back to mind.
You are the dirt I enlist to fight dirt,
The janissary I send to fight your own kind,
The homeopathic remedy for grime.
Desert in a can, a little dune of you
Is all it takes to make a bathtub shine.
A short sandstorm of you
Is all it takes to make a faucet gleam.
Though you clot like the Sahara
When rare rain turns its dust to mud,
You never rot.
With a shake or a poke, you are at my service,
A faithful servant that sleeps till I need you.
Oh, if only I could stroke your container
With an ungloved hand, and drive all filth away!
Genie in a cardboard bottle,
Three wishes I make of you:
Clean my kitchen,
Clean my bathroom,
And do both without me.
Ode to the Spoon
O little boat in a shallow port,
Shuttling precious cargo from the larger vessel
To the shore of my tongue,
O die that casts my mouth into a smile,
O tool that set me free from my mother’s breast,
Your curvaceous form delivers doses of soft nurture.
O measure fit for the human form,
Your concave volume holds no more, no less,
Than I at any moment would wish to receive.
Intimate of my lips, you offer me small presents –
Sugar, milk, broth – indulgences and comforts.
O alchemist, you mix honey with lemon,
Cream with coffee, yin with yang,
Transmuting elements on my kitchen table.
After all you do for me, how can I let you lie encrusted
With smears of yogurt, or hardened jam?
What honor is there for you, hidden in the sink
Under a dirty dish? Let me wash you and wipe you dry.
And then again we can enjoy our private joke –
My face reflected in yours,
Distorted by your trick mirror.
Ode to the Apricot
O dimpled cheeks of sunburnt orange
Finely fuzzed and firmly fragrant
Sweet little sister of the family of fruit,
I choose you, O Apricot, in season and out.
From among your quivering leaves, you drop
Like a tear from a scorned lover.
How could I, or anyone, have let you dangle, expectantly,
From the branch so long?
Forgive my indiscretion, while the sweet tang
Of your flesh lingers on my tongue.
O Apricot, you deserve better
Than to melt into the hot dirt.
So soon you would go to rot without my swift rescue.
O very substance of summer,
Swollen against that hard smooth nut
Revealed when my thumbs plunge into the swale of your navel.
Must fall come, and winter?
Cannot your liquid sunshine tide me over
And away from every
chill?
A taste of your jam, and I’m barefoot again,
A bite of your pie, and my eyes smile, squinting in the brilliance,
A swig of your juice in January,
And it’s as if our vernal romance had just begun.