Jayne Pupek

DINNER PARTY

The beautiful tuna had been cooked to dry dullness, and the bitter baby bok choy was alarmingly dissonant with the sauce.
—Patricia Greathouse, Santa Fe New Mexican, 4 August 2006

Our guests arrive early, catching us mid-quarrel.
You mix drinks, adding lime juice to tomato puree,
your twist on a Bloody Mary. Everyone raves,
ignoring your mismatched socks, forgiving
your five o'clock shadow. Cloistered in the kitchen,
I scorch the bok choy. The smell of it is bitter,
the edges, alarmingly black, match the dress
you refused to zip up my back.
I stare at the tuna steaks, darkening
on the grill. Fixated on this notion
of hatching and crosshatching, I keep
turning the meat. Zebra
stripes change into diamonds,
diamonds into fine obsidian.
Inside, the meat is pink tissue paper
and chalk. Flake, flake, I scrape away,
burnt skin, looking for the rarest parts.
On a square white plate,
the sliced fennel and radishes
make a perfect flower.
I offer these petals between each course
to cleanse our charred palettes.

—This poem first appeared in THE DIRTY NAPKIN, 2008

CP

Jayne Pupek is the author of the novel, Tomato Girl and two books of poems, Forms of Intercession and The Livelihood of Crows.

Jayne Pupek

THE LIVELIHOOD OF CROWS

You ask me to explain the livelihood of crows.
I say nothing, only point to the darkening expanse

above where birds saw holes in shapes
like themselves. We are all replicas, Jackson.

In the field, a man spreads manure on the ground
where white cabbages grow. I saw his face this morning,

tilted toward the sun, and he looked as if he felt gratitude
for his shovel of dung, his stretch of land.

In the evening, when you go back to your sick wife,
I won't quarrel. I'll stand at my stove and boil

one of the cabbages down to soup.
I'll look out my window and watch the red eyes

of your taillights disappear down the road,
while overhead, black crows divide the sky in half.

I'll return to the stove, drop in chopped herbs, and onion.
I'll put up my hair, wash my face, and go on.

Years later, when I think of you lying beside me,
I won't regret these things we've done.

—This poem first appeared in Stirring, 2008

CP

Jayne Pupek is the author of the novel, Tomato Girl and two books of poems, Forms of Intercession and The Livelihood of Crows.

Jayne Pupek

LIVES IN DECLINE

What were we to make
of the insurrection of yellow flowers?
Seedlings sprouted and bloomed
as if compelled to do their duty,
but not one of them thrived.
We shrank from conversation,
spent the early months inside,
watching fall previews
on the television,
even singing sometimes
the jingles that began each program.
When you lost your job and the cost
of gasoline
consumed more of our budget,
we cancelled cable
and spent more time in the dark.
We didn't talk any more than we did
those evenings we'd spent
stretched out on the braided rug
jotting down clues to solve
the latest serial murder
while the lanky detective
pursued the wrong man.
We didn't know then
how rare a yellow flower
opening its petals in a North window,
or how the Cathedral bell ringing
down the street could signal
the passage of time even on days
when the minute hand stopped.

—This poem first appeared in THE DIRTY NAPKIN, 2008

CP

Jayne Pupek is the author of the novel, Tomato Girl and two books of poems, Forms of Intercession and The Livelihood of Crows.

Jayne Pupek

RED GLOVE

A woman comes into the bookstore
late for the reading. Already the poet stands
at the podium, book open, his voice moving precipitously
over the page as if it were bruised skin and each word
printed there not a word at all, but a wound.
The late arrival takes the seat next to me,
no greeting or nod, she is already absorbing the poem,
the longing inside her stronger than anything
the poet might say. Her name may be Susan or Carol,
or even Isabelle, but she is just as likely to answer
to dirty floors, coupons, Clorox, aluminum foil.
She wears her life in the strands of hair
coming loose from the rubber band
looped around it, and in the man's shirt
drooping off her shoulders.
I smell her history in the cigarette smoke lifting off her coat
when she moves to hang the garment
across the chair's curved back.
Her needs show in her cheap shoes, discolored teeth,
and dark half-moons deepening her eyes.
And here I find the proof of her longing.
It is in the single red glove
clutched in her hand, and in the way she wrings it
like a cloth soaked with blood.

--This poem first appeared in the UK magazine, Mslexia

CP

Jayne Pupek is the author of the novel, Tomato Girl and two books of poems, Forms of Intercession and The Livelihood of Crows.