poems by owen lucas

Supper, kitchen smells like onion,
Karl streaks mustard down the bun
slides hot round Hebrew National
dog. Kathleen tugs the fridge open,
grabs an avocado, quick stress-ball
squeeze if it's ripe? then knife
in two, spoon scoop out a half-
cup. The pan, sautéing, spits
a bit, she takes three steps to
nudge slices free with spatula.

Now the avocado mushing, spoon
death-dealing, pulped vegetable
brain sweet and mild on stain-
less steel. She crunches a chip
between her teeth, tortilla salt
saliva straight out a crinkled
pack, just masticate it to pap,
cornflour dry and oh so light.

On the side bagels and big
portobello mushrooms in Saran
wrap, buns in bags, waiting for
the pan, the grill, the immolation
then grinding of glittering molars.