Shallot

I get little bits of you all over me
while I bloody my index finger
trying to chop correctly and precisely,
like Jacques Pépin with his wide grin,
trying to ignore the dog banging
the glass door with her paw
and barking to get in
and the crows ganging up
on the sharp-shinned hawk.
I'm ready for an eclipse
that brings me salty waves, pelagic
pleasures. I'm ready to dance among
lemon wedges while the rosemary reaches
for the sun, and the orchid sways
and dips and red ladies drop
their skirts to their knees, wiggling free.
A rich, fat man gets stuck in the needle
eye of heaven, cumulus clouds
closing around him. A camel
clogs the drain. The sanguine sister,
sitting on her stalk, casts her net,
but nothing catches.
In the uncut grass crickets
rub their sticky legs,
calling the names of lovers.
Now you wait for me,
shimmying in a sleek pan—
your streaked layers translucent
in the glissando of sizzle—
giving up your bitterness
to the peppery oil.