I prepared the plates
for breakfast, then turned Radio
Bartók on. After lured into washing hands
the children sat at the table finally.
Blunt cutlery clanking on white
porcelain plates underlying the melancholy
of Purcell. Remember me, but
forget my fate, lamented Dido,
and just before I would have got lost
in the sloping sound canyon the broadcast
ended. A hogwash of news followed
with the well-known propaganda
repeated all the time. I turned it off
not letting it plague the smiley
snacking of my children.
I thought about Dido and her
love rooted beneath the grave.
They can write into my fate but –
eat at last, daddy, my son interrupted.
Suddenly I realized that I squeezed
the knife tightly as if an
invisible but thoroughly
tangible infernal ghost would
have sneaked into the kitchen.