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Poetry | April 2010

Oh, No.

By Ellen Kartchner Gregory

Now that the unwanted sauce has tainted your pasta,
let’s follow that flaw further: the air you breathe? —
the kitchen’s adrift in fumes of tomato, onion, garlic,
drenched in rosemary, oregano, basil, bay, thyme…

And when you kiss me goodnight,
& smell my breath rank with the tang of asiago,
my long cheek may seem the indifferent difficulty of life,
O my sad child.

1 reply on “Oh, No.”

Kim McMechansays:
April 20, 2010 at 2:08 pm

I have one of these. I totally get that. Thanks for the sweet moment captured.

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