Frying tonight
Outside, the dark breathes vinegar and salt; The lemon window seems to salivate, Draws peckish kids, black moths to candlelight.
Inside you may sit down to eat, or take Your parcelled supper out into the night. On each white halo of a china plate Dismembered golden dactyls form a nest About the scab of batter which, when split, Confesses flesh as white as coconut.
Beneath investigation of bright fork The naked body breaks and separates, Unfolds its steaming leaves in smooth soft flakes.
Sleek, plump bottles, bodies almost black, Hold vinegar on all the table tops Like little holy sisters in white caps.
And on the counter in a gallon can, Floating blindly in translucent brine, Small green dirigibles loll still, becalmed.
Those silver vats behind, they all contain Hot lakes of oil: when fresh peeled chips are drowned They spit and sizzle like a thousand cats.
In front a patient congregation stands; These serious communicants who long To feel warm parcels solid in their hands.
Later, at home, replete, they may spread out Stained paper cerements, read about old scores Dead scandals, weddings, unimportant wars.
Vernon Scannell
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