I was in the kitchen cooking quiche
gross feeders circling all around me.
Dear Lorca was lying open on my table
with his lemons and oranges piled high
by the sink.  I picked up my knife,
I’d been doing the onions, cut a slice
of lemon and ran it down the blade -
acid on steel takes the taint away.
Then I cradled the tin and cut through
the limp pastry.  Its floury folds fell away
from the rim.

Singing lullabies to Lorca, I dance
in my kitchen, stave off my hunger
for delicate forms.  What shall I do
with the remaining pastry?  There’s
enough left over for something sweet.
Roll it up and bake it, fill it with fruit,
sprinkle with sugar and tonight for a
treat I’ll rise with the moon as it turns
to honey.  Just behind my left shoulder,
discrete.