Au Gratin

The point of the knife
Headed straight for the eye
Deftly cutting it out of its socket,
Making a popping sound
When it hit the cutting board,
Reminding him of the opening scene
Of Un Chien Andalou,
A French film he saw in the seventies
Down at the old Vanguard,

He had saved the rest of them
From the one that was rotten,
Bathing them in ritual fashion
Washing off the stinking,
Rotting flesh of the dead,
Then peeling them one by one
Revealing their golden nakedness
That would soon hit the boiling water
Like the fate of so many lobsters,

Grating: First the cheese
Which makes a hissing sound,
Then the peppercorns
Followed by garlic,
Making him cry and sneeze
At the same time,
Finally the nutmeg,
Always the nutmeg skrit skritting
On the metal grater,

Reverently carrying the peelings
Out to the compost in the garden,
Throwing them down,
Turning away,
The feeling of being watched
All the way back to the house,
Stumbling on the metal grate
Of the driveway while looking
In the French dictionary
For “au gratin”.