Tonight is for wine and pasta and mourning.

Tonight is for wine and pasta and mourning.

It is marinara sizzling on the stove,
its cloying scent hanging in the air,
in the curtained lace,
the laundry hung to dry in the window.
It is bread crust, paper crinkling between your fingers,
fish and fennel,
fresh basil,
reddened clams and squid ink.
It is battered wooden bowls and lumpy woolen socks.

Tonight is for creation,
gluing plastic gems to glass bottles,
slipping clay between your palms,
stringing lights and long ribbons in the trees.
Tonight is camera lenses,
round mirrors and candlelight,
wax dripping onto tabletops,
burning your skin.
It is spilled paint and glitter in the floorboards.

Tonight is for creation because how could it be otherwise?

Tonight is for mourning but it is not for tears,
empty gasps of pain for a stranger.
Tonight is not for tears.

It's the warmth of a comforter, a child's plaything,
that sorrowfully bright moon in the sky.

Dedicated to Andrew Williamson-Noble.