As Usual
I drain the tofu first,
holding the heavy
white sponge
in my palm. Sear it
til the white browns. Moving that
to a bowl, I hear the bell. Someone
is at the door. I wipe my hands,
buzz him in after throwing the
chopped onions, mushrooms, peppers into
the still hot
wok. When the tender flesh
begins to brown, and
he turns music on
in the living room, I open
a can of coconut milk;
pour it over the sizzling vegetables,
swirl it around
with a wooden spoon. He pulls
a book from his bag and
begins reading from
“The Paris Review”. Half
listening, I chop ginger root,
sprinkle turmeric, curry, cayenne
“Here’s a new one by Sharon Olds,”
he says, while I rinse cilantro.
“The Haircut,” he begins.
I open
the fridge,
reach
for the lemons.
