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The Garlic I Chopped Last Night

Jenny Adamthwaite

Place


The Garlic I Chopped Last Night

Sometimes, during the slow trudge of the day towards evening,

when I’m scanning vegetables wrapped in cellophane

or picking litter from the street;

when I’m filling a blank table with numbers that should be bigger perhaps

or turning burgers on an oily griddle;

when I’m telling off the boy who’s been fighting for a week;

when I’m bandaging the leg of an old lady who forgot to step over the dog

or sticking a parking ticket to a Mercedes,

I brush my fingers against my face to catch a hair or soothe an itch
and smell the garlic I chopped last night:
the bubbling of a pan, thick with tomatoes, basil, meat,
wine pouring into clean glasses
and around the table: friends, laughter, smiles
as the moon crosses the sky and promises
to let us forget that tomorrow we have to work

with heads as heavy as memory

and eyes that need more sleep.


Jenny Adamthwaite










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