A Kitchen Accident In Prospect Heights


Pheasant (Andrew Howe/Getty Images)

A Kitchen Accident in Prospect Heights

M. bastes the roasting pheasant with a jigger of too-cold
Pinot Grigio, and the glass baking dish shatters.  Pheasant
fat spills into the oven, crackles angrily, then
sublimes.  Smoke spews through the stove-top,

chokes the hallway, the bedroom… The whole apartment
fogs up. When I find M. unhurt, I get surly.  How much
will I be changed before I am changed? (“What the hell did you say?”
I holler as I try to drown the fire.)  The fowl’s

burnt ectoplasm scumbles our particulars: a foxed etching
of “The Death of Socrates;” my books (there dims the spine
of Metamorphoses and Goodall’s In The Shadow of Man).
Our eyes redden; bearings smudge. (I can barely

read the cuckoo clock.)  Shouting, we open every window.
I am no longer I, the poor bird grieves, unheard.

*Click on the audio icon below to hear Malcolm Farley read his poem “A Kitchen Accident In Prospect Heights”


About Malcolm Farley

Writer, Photographer, Poet, Imagineer
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