Good Poems about Food (Part 3)

Hot by Craig Arnold



I'm cooking Thai--you bring the beer.

The same order, although it's been a year



--friendships based on food are rarely stable.

We should have left ours at the table.



where it began, and went to seed,

that appetite we shared, based less in need



than boredom--always the cheapest restaurants,

Thai, Szechwan, taking our chance



with gangs and salmonella--what was hot?

The five-starred curries? The pencil-out



entrees?-- the first to break a sweat

would leave the tip. I raise the knocker, let



it fall, once, twice, and when the door is opened

I can't absorb, at first, what's happened



--face loosened a notch, eyes with the gloss

of a fever left to run its course



too long, letting the unpropped skin collapse

in a wrinkled heap. Only the lips



I recognize--dry, cracked, chapped

from licking. He looks as though he's slept.



a week in the same clothes. --Come in, kick back,

he says, putting my warm six-pack



of Pale & Bitter into the fridge to chill.

There's no music. I had to sell



the stereo to support my jones, he jokes

Meaning the glut of good cookbooks



that cover one whole wall, in stacked milk crates

six high, nine wide, two deep. He grates



unripe papaya into a bowl,

fires off questions--When did you finish school?



Why not? Still single? Why? That dive

that served the ginger eels, did it survive?



I don't get out much. Shall we go sometime?

He squeezes the quarters of a lime



into the salad, adds a liberal squirt

of chili sauce. I won't be hurt



if you don't want seconds. It's not as hot

as I would like to make it, but



you always were a bit of a lightweight.

Here, its finished, try a bite.



He holds a forkful of crisp

Green shreds for me to take. I swallow, gasp,



choke--pins and needles shoot

through mouth and throat, a heat so absolute



as to seem freezing. I know better

not to wash it down with ice water



--it seems to cool, but only spreads the fire--

I can only bite my lip and swear



quietly to myself, so caught

up in our old routine--What? This is hot?



You're sweating. Care for another beer?

--it doesn't occur to me that he's sincere



until, my eyes watering, half in rage,

I open the door and find the fridge



stacked full with little jars of curry paste,

arranged by color, labels faced



carefully outward, some pushed back

to make room for the beer, --no milk, no take-



out cartons of gelatinous chow mein,

no pickles rotting in green brine,



not even a jar of moldy mayonnaise.

--I see you're eating well these days,



I snap, pressing the beaded glass

of a beer bottle against my neck, face,



temples, anywhere it will hurt

enough to draw the fire out, and divert



attention from the fear that follows

close behind... He stares at me, the hollows



under his eyes more prominent than ever.

--I don't eat much these days. The flavor



has gone out of everything, almost.

For the first time it's not a boast.



You know those small bird chili pods--the type

you wear surgical gloves to chop,



then soak your knife and cutting board

in vinegar? A month ago I scored



a fresh bag--they were so ripe

I couldn't cut them warm, I had to keep



them frozen. I forget what I had meant

to make, that night--I'd just cleaned



the kitchen, wanted to fool around

with some old recipe I'd lost, and found



jammed up behind a drawer--I had

maybe too much to drink. "Can't be that bad,"



I remember thinking. "What's the fuss

about? It's not as if they're poisonous..."



Those peppers, I ate them, raw--a big fistful

shoved in my mouth, swallowed whole,



and more, and more. It wasn't hard.

You hear of people getting their eyes charred



to cinders, staring into an eclipse...

He speaks so quickly, one of his lips



has cracked, leaks a triple of blood

along his chin. ...I never understood.



I try to speak, to offer some

Small shocked rejoinder, but my mouth is numb,



tingling, hurts to move--I called in sick

next morning, said I'd like to take



time off. She thinks I've hit the bottle.

The high those peppers gave me is more subtle--



I'm lucid, I remember my full name,

my parents' birthdays, how to win a game



of chess in seven moves, why which and that

mean different things. But what we eat,



why, what it means, it's all been explained

--Take this curry, this fine-tuned



balance of humors, coconut liquor thinned

by broth, sour pulp of tamarind



cut through by salt, set off by fragrant

galangal, ginger, basil, cilantro, mint,



the warp and woof of texture, aubergines

that barely hold their shape, snap beans



heaped on jasmine, basmanti rice

--it's a lie, all of it--pretext--artifice



--ornament--sugar-coating--for...

He stops, expressing heat from every pore



of his full face, unable to give vent

to any more, and sits, silent,



a whole minute. --You understand?

Of course, I tell him. As he takes my hand



I can't help but notice the strength his grip

has lost, as he lifts it to his lip,



presses it for a second, the torn flesh

as soft, as tenuous, as ash,



not in the least harsh or rough,

wreck of a mouth, that couldn't say enough.