Cheffing

Her non-stick skin,
her nipples glowing like Tefal spots,
her al dente hair,

her wonderful steamer,
her rolling pin forearms,
her mortar armpits, talcum floured,

the Aga of her belly,
the George Foreman of her belly,
the curry-house candle-lit hot-plate of her belly,

and the gas leak realisation, too late,
of her leaving,
the putting out a chip pan fire with water
of my excuses,

the cross-hatched chopping board
where we intersected, briefly,
discovering our constituent parts:

dice, we leave each other
unmixed, emulsive, separately

hopeful that someone new will come
with their recipes
and their throwing something together.