In his final years, illness attended / the artist. His friends brought him flowers / and, in modest works, when…
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Who pushed a knife
into its face,
carved features of hate?
Against the yam-vine quiet of the garden / a nightingale stirred with my father: the lift / and fall of…
I’m going to round off this head of kale
and pack it sweet beside
the yellow slips that are my butter-breaths.