Katia Engell
I spend too long on a special lemon dressing
for a salad I’d only ever make when devoted.
I add a tablespoon of sesame oil and watch
as the rest of the dressing refuses to absorb it.
I screw the jar lid on tight and give it a shake,
forcing the liquids to mix when they really can’t—the oil
symbolically relinquishes, makes itself small enough
to feign homogeneity with the squeezed lemon, pressed garlic
pomegranate juice, and other wet, secret ingredients.
The jar slips from my vigorous grip and shatters on the floor.
The yellowed-crimson of it paints Rorschachs on the tiles
as I yelp at the immediate loss of time,
time strewn now at my feet, teasing me
with splotchy psychoanalysis: an anatomically correct heart;
a clown frowning upside down; two swans kissing beaks.
I sigh, lean down, genuflect at this spontaneous altar of hours.
I pick up the shards and glance at the fruit bowl
only to confirm: I had used the last lemon.
—
Katia Engell is an artist and poet living in Toronto, Canada. When she is not collaging, writing, or collaborating with friends, you’ll likely find her working creatively with people living with dementia. Her poetry can be found in Epiphany Magazine and Vermillion Lit, and has been featured on Read a Little Poem.