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Roman Pilaf

Oven at 350 degrees

rice pilaf slowly bubbling

I'm back in Germany

in the large decaying kitchen

Luba cutting,mixing

slow dance of repetitive motion

void of feeling

just the need to feed and nurture

a group of convoluted characters

I'm the child with the golden locks

nestled between the hot oven

and a string of decayed rooms

hoping but afraid that Roman

will appear

slightly drunk

charming yet vindictive

Lanky and chiseled

matinee idol hitting bottom

guaranteed adulation

from a shrink wrap audience

daddie daddie

who knew

his affections buried deep inside

afraid to venture center stage

slave to dark impulses

of step fathers

crawling against his skin

forcing him

to bend and crawl

feel the sting of worn leather

forcing him to let go and pee

invitation to deeper pain

holding it in

letting go with a stutter

rosemary and onions

diced and cooked in butter

two cups of rinsed jasmine rice

dripping waiting

slivers of carrots and raisins

ghost of roman mingling with the aromas

seductive as always

hunched and patient

as I fold the ingredients together

and place it into the oven

i have always been the mistress

to his dreams

the unwilling partner

to calm the stutter

and understand

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