The Cannibal of Memory Tim Barnes
I heard you were dead and so I stirred the soup. I stirred and stirred in me the many-seasoned stew Of memory and bone, the one with torn cartilage and fate, The gristles of regret and the salts of circumstance, The one with the garlics of gullion and the acids of irony, With the onions of anger, their flavors and fevers. I chopped the rosemary of remembrance and added it to you Marrowing there in a black pot, the thick broth I brewed, The stew stirring me now– You cooking up something new From somewhere with no e-mails, faxes, or phones, Memories seasoned with you, the stock and bones I stew and stir and brew, that kettle of contradictions With which I cook and concoct that slumgullion stew, That soup, that brew, that meditation I made of you.
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