It's Wrong To Get So Upset About Chili Oil

I watch you in their kitchen, you more or less prowl.
Your narrowed eyes are seeking more reasons
to deride. You count the oils. Eleven, you mouth at me.
What's wrong with olive? I'm looking at the fruitbowl
a great inverted fruit itself, a raspberry. It overflows
with things we peer at on the shelves, read their names
imagine we might try once, laugh away. Like we did
with those lychees, cheap at the market. Warty peel
sliding under our nails, the slippery eyeballs - perfumed.
Felt like phlegm you said. I poke a papaya.
You're handling a pot when he comes in. You put it
down. Ask if one of his kids made it at school. I look -
the wonky shape, the grey streaked glaze. Wondering
if I could like him. He pulls himself up straight.
Contemporary French. He mutters. Later she shows us
more. Apologetic, lets us know he's a collector.