Night Song

In the kitchen, kale wilts
in the sauté pan, the garlic
weaving its magic into every

fiber. The crook-necked squash,
bathed in tamari and sesame seed
oil, lightly sizzles, and I think

is it only in the South that such
delicacies smell so inviting, their
richness so welcome? No matter

anyway. Heat lightning strobes
the night. Crickets stridulate,
wing meeting wing to fill the air

with song, their time soon
to be gone for a season. I want
to sit on the porch and smoke

late into the night, so late
I forget that I should be in bed,
my body a vessel of needs.

I want to forget that I need
to remember my body and its
needs, the longing with no end,

the perfunctory way I chop
the kale and garlic, the squash
and onions, the indifference

in which I greet them on the plate,
these fellow inhabitants of the planet
whose only purpose is to feed me.