2007
The water is on the boil, the rice noodles soaking in fresh thirst.
I hack open a tin of mushroom that I think I might expose to the air;
the fish balls come; I take them, the mushroom too, the innards a soft, brown burst,
I cut them both with a no mercy blade knife, or ceremony care.
The degenerating lettuce, past a sell-by date, yellowing exterior
in the fridge’s embrace I cut, and discard in brutal way;
a raw, new clump of a Chinese vegetable, washing the soil from the interior,
gets guillotined, the crunch of the stem an essential ingredient to colour the play.
The water comes to heat, the salt and pepper gush
in loving accord now; I regret I didn’t sauté the mushrooms, to tang
the flavour of an insipid dish, in my opinion, but they eat in pre-tuition rush.
Ian, we need you now; I could only tell those about you, when St Asaph rang.
Casting away the heating thought of cooking, I go back to Algeria,
where you were thought of, with extra helping of couscous, a hero,
unknown though, for country; club yes, but there, with football grain hysteria,
1985, a long time ago; MP Oran two, CRE Constantine zero.
A warm beer, or three, with sardines in a main street bar we ate,
a quiet Anglosphere, discreet in language, in tone
for there, la Guerre d’Independence exists, to bait
the Légion Etrangère history of the Francophone.
The noodles go in, followed by mushroom and fish ball, rising
in the heat of the water; the lettuce goes in for a quick skin.
I scoop up, without much ease, into the waiting dishes, prising
the oleaginous-free slime, refusing to go in.
They eat at the inbound grey table, a warm lethargy there
with a half-soft light of an uninteresting lamp;
binti goes out again, for tuition in the breezeless evening air,
whilst I wash up, and watch the two-remaining camp,
a portrait of simplicity, of a relaxing pre-night peace;
but next morning, the cold light, grey dawn, approach to take
me, in a half-naked bed, where quiet caressing, touch increase
the mime that might come with the encroaching break.
