by Bernard Reed
Everything I do is practice for something
worse. The last line of this poem is from
Rilke, read in the afternoon, in the form of a
French bistro’s itemized receipt: comped wine,
beets and bourguignon. I slather myself with
partially-fermented luxury products from
an import grocer as my pantry grows larger,
becomes a feast of gold. I reach the point
where I can no longer distinguish
pleasure from art, honey from vinegar.
There are tambourines, hooves pressed
into flesh, glass broken into sunlight. After
eating a piece of mnemosyne ringed with light,
my whole life becomes changed, my gut flora will
carry me from danger. I go to bed early and dream
of mustard and chocolate, rillettes and rancio sec.
The night prefers me in a world without objects.
______
Bernard Reed is a writer in Chicago.
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