Strand
Fiona Sze-Lorrain
Three nights before his death, I described the sweetness
of his tortilla de patatas to a stranger
who became my neighbor, a singer whose ears looked pointed but not elvish
enough to trigger a blank verse, and that was three nights
before his death when I hit it off with her, after salting potatoes
and half a dozen eggs
to cook a tortilla in the shape of Manhattan, a meal that Kafka
his favorite atheist
would have pictured as healthy but way too pleasant.