The beautiful tuna had been cooked to dry dullness,
and the bitter baby bok choy was alarmingly dissonant with the sauce.
—Patricia Greathouse, Santa Fe New Mexican, 4 August 2006

Our guests arrive early, catching us mid-quarrel.
You mix drinks, adding lime juice to tomato puree,
your twist on a Bloody Mary. Everyone raves,
ignoring your mismatched socks, forgiving
your five o’clock shadow. Cloistered in the kitchen,
I scorch the bok choy. The smell of it is bitter,
the edges, alarmingly black, match the dress
you refused to zip up my back.
I stare at the tuna steaks, darkening
on the grill. Fixated on this notion
of hatching and crosshatching, I keep
turning the meat. Zebra
stripes change into diamonds,
diamonds into fine obsidian.
Inside, the meat is pink tissue paper
and chalk. Flake, flake, I scrape away,
burnt skin, looking for the rarest parts.
On a square white plate,
the sliced fennel and radishes
make a perfect flower.
I offer these petals between each course
to cleanse our charred palettes.