Monday, May 01, 2006


28 October 2001...

Kirala was one of our favorite sushi places
The hostess remembered us even after the long absence
As we ducked into the lobby, out of the chill

On the drive there, I wondered what would make
The evening a nice experience—it was my birthday
It had been the longest span since that

February in New York that we had been apart
You looked wonderfully glowing but hesitant
Like a moth choosing between light and flame

The steaming miso warmed me inside
But we never got past agedashi tofu
In the rhythm of our conversation

The space between our sentences was
As fresh and cold as that night’s otoro;
Precious and tasteful but seeming misplaced

The aesthetic presence of the meal; a metaphor
Four our odd situation but as yet unaware
The attraction and nourishment for heart and soul

Was in the paradox of sushi’s delicate beauty—
The sensual contact on the palate of uncooked, raw fish

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