Mr. Hyde

Restless sits my soul
While hours wile away
Awaiting the familiar ghoul
That taunts me by the day
He wears my face and pries
The black recesses of my heart
Despite my fearful cries
He laughs, “It’s just the start.”

Memory

A quick word or a moment’s hesitation
On that rare sought visitation
Of past deeds and minor wrongs enacted
Through Time’s mirror so refracted
The gruesome monster and saint, both faces
Dwelling again in recalled joys and distastes
Yoked by the burden of a conscious being
Who sees beyond the mere seeing

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Culinary Faux Pas

A few months ago, my family went out to celebrate my birthday. We ate at a French restaurant where a number of my relatives tried foie gras for the first time. Not knowing that the pate was supposed to be spread like jam, my father treated it like a slice of ham or chicken instead, by sandwiching it on a piece of bread. My younger sister, who was the most wordly of us and had eaten at a number of fine restaurants, cried out in alarm. My youngest sister, even though not having tried foie gras herself, berated my dad for not asking about how to eat it. I was just embarrassed, not of my dad, but for him. My own sisters were yelling at my dad simply for not knowing enough, as if reaffirming to themselves they weren’t ignorant, or nearly as ignorant.