Brodifacoum Ratatouille

[miyako73]

I watch her on the high mahogany chair
staring at my hands heating the oiled pan.
I peel and smash the pungent garlic
her stuffy nostrils can no longer smell.
I dice the purple onion into brunoise,
turning my back when grains of tears fall.
I chop the ripe tomatoes that bleed seeds
like the bursting lesions on her arms and legs.
I slice the green bell pepper into julienne,
wondering if she still knows who I am.
I throw the cut spices into the searing pan
that masks the loud pain she complains.
I sauté carrots, zucchini, and aubergine
and add salt, pepper, and some greens.
I cover the pan after the dried bay leaf,
hoping she will remember its rustic taste.
I count her wordless moans she breathes
as I look at the gas fire flickering its leak.
I am done with my elaborate French cooking
but not her moaning and deep breathing.
I use her old china perfect for the dish,
a potpourri of bright colors she cannot see.
I finish it with a potent garnish and apology
for the red pellets on top of the ratatouille.

[hillwalker]

Definitely not a case of 'Come Dine With Me' - a poem dense with sadess and torment with hints of assisted suicide given the deft way you add the emotional undercurrent as the recipe unfolds.

Another very clever piece - inference rather than demonstration. I never cease to amazed by your talent.

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

Without intending a pun, this is breath-taking! An ingenious use of the cooking details to reveal your relationship to this elderly person.

[Delta40]

I think the ingredients of your grief created a perfect dish for all. what a beautiful way to express yourself.

[Jerrybaldy]

Lovesd the juxtaposition of the meal and the heartache.
bw
JB

[miyako73]

Thanks, for the comments and appreciation a struggling poet/writer truly needs.