I wonder who wound up with it
in the divorce—and notice immediately
how wound is the same, when you’re typing,
as wound, a hurt—that tacky
ceramic number, tricked out with leaves
and grapes, I picked off the gift registry
at Marshall Field’s and actually saw
hard at work once—full of bubbly
steaming brown gravy!—on a Thanksgiving
table, oh, five, six years ago. It’s the name
that grabbed me, a boat designed
to keep liquid in, that frail coracle
that carries not necessity, but condiment—
this rich, salty blend of meat drippings
and flour in the original, whisked up
right in the pan, or some processed, jarred
whoseywhat from Wegman’s, nuked
and on the table in 60 seconds flat.
If I had any say in it, it would’ve been flung
at the wall—finger-pointing, yelling,
goddamnit, a ducked head
and crash!—in an after-midnight
fight months before anything was “settled,”
the paltry goods divvied up, boxed
and trucked off—what’s left
hauled away to what’s next. Let it be
one more victim, watercolory shards
of green and brown on waxy
linoleum, swept up, binned and gone—
to be dumped and forgotten, left to crumble
into dust and blow away into the dark
indifferent waters off Staten Island
from the landfill called Fresh Kills.
|
