Comments about Cynthia Gallaher
The Rages Of Garlic Is Love
Garlic, you poser,
you snowy-hearted non-participant,
lying languid in the pantry
like a cold-shouldered bimbo next to old onion.
I blow your cover,
take you in hand to peel your bulb apart,
Your cloves spring free as thick and waxy as eagle’s talons.
In the kitchen I cut and crush your bite-size payloads;
you are in conspiracy with me
as your true, hot nature is about to be revealed.
You spread through the press with a powerful new altruism,
From the skillet your odor broadcasts your communal intentions,
to make a fragrant, pungent ...