The falafel cry as they are dolloped into the hot grease
by the husband-half of the Lake Ella farmer’s market
who demands I take my hands out of my pockets,
insisting I will need both for his falafel
as he cradles a pita pocket and begin the layers:
a foundational falafel, salad-slaw mix, tahini slathered inside,
filler falafel—one or two or three—the sides of the pita bulging
as he adds yet another fried ball, and I think this is madness
that the wrap will burst in the ecstasy of all these chickpeas,
like a double meatball sub or an over-heaped burrito
folded delicately into an uncomfortable existence—
or the man belting Nirvana at the gym urinal
as I stand hunched over the sink, brushing my teeth,
with a usual amount of effort at first
which escalates into a wild scouring, hoping in vain
the man will hear me working away—
but he’s already worked into the chorus of Smells Like Teen Spirit
with a hop, zipping up with that jerking movement men do,
the craft of not catching your dick in the zipper
(something everyone learns the hard way),
just to walk past me and out the bathroom
without pausing to wash his hands.
I can still make him out, muffled a bit,
switching to a Katy Perry joint I can’t recall
as I finish brushing my teeth, spit, rinse,
and walk into the locker room
to find him at the first bench making sandwiches,
rooting, wrist-deep, in a peanut butter jar with a Gerber multitool
and a whole loaf of bread set out on the bench,
which all goes to show that one person’s oddity is another’s ritual
which I explained to an ex raised by a lapsed Catholic
and a Shinto-Buddhist who had a gig singing
at a Episcopal church and said she didn’t understand
why they swung a golden ball on a chain smoking
down the aisle, or why it smelled so god-awful—
I said it was probably just the scent of tradition,
that maybe it was supposed to smell bad
and, come spring, she had invited me
to their Easter service. So I went and they swung the censer
and carried a torch, and a little girl in the pew
in front of me sat on the ground, ate cookies,
and drew on the program with crayons,
which is my kind of church service,
but I liked all the flame and smoke
despite my fear that this church, in its age
and tinder-box construction, might not survive—
but the Spanish anarchist Buenaventura Durutti
said the only church that illuminates
is a burning one, which seems a bit extreme.
That’s anarchy’s brand, I suppose,
but if you strip a person of these structures, you’re just left
with motions, the smallness of the body and its workings.
There is a documentary where Jiro,
a Michelin three-star sushi chef, bikes to the market
each morning to purchase that day’s fish. No—
his son has done this since he quit cigarettes,
which he only did because he had a heart attack.
None of this keeps Jiro from the performance, though—
he presses a clump of rice in his mottled hands,
he smiles as the guests eat his ritual.
I wept when I first watched this,
and if we’re being honest, it’s still a real nuclear option —
but why do Jiro, the Falafel man, and the little girl
get my goat, where the man making sandwiches doesn’t?
Why don’t I weep openly at the beauty of his craft
or see divinity in the same way I did
when I ordered a pair of Bean Boots and they arrived
and I opened the box to find a little placard
that read Handcrafted For You in Brunswick, Maine by Linda—
but the name was signed in a pleasant cursive
and I felt loved, strangely enough
and thought if there is a god her name is Linda,
and she is employed by L.L. Bean where every day
she wakes up and eats two eggs with bright
orange yolks—the kind you can only get from chickens
that are a terror for bugs—before she fills her hammer-tone
green thermos with Folgers and drives to work, punches in,
and feels the rhythming of the sewing machine
under her fingertips till all of a sudden its clock-out time
and she drives home, takes her work boots off, and cooks a hearty dinner.
Something with beans and sweet potatoes. No—
pork chops and rice, maybe, which she eats in the recliner
as she falls asleep watching the news or a gameshow
just to wake up as the credits role and move into bed
and a silence, her mind stitching dreams, her blood crossing.
If you strip someone of these motions, what is left?
Less and less. Maybe nothing—
even Jiro says an octopus should be massaged for thirty minutes,
that this makes the taste and texture of the sushi better,
in the same way locker room sandwiches have a certain umami,
but wait, an apprentice must massage it for forty minutes now
before it can be worked into a piece and finally rest
on the black serving slate as soy sauce pulls down,
the ruddy darkness running through the grains as
the sushi finishes relaxing, the course is eaten,
the church never burns down,
and the locker room troubadour’s melodies cut off abruptly
as I leave, walk by his bench,
and see that this is only because he’s eating
the peanut butter sandwich he’s worked so hard for,
which makes me weep and laugh because if I’d gotten my pita wrap
for here instead of to-go, the falafel-husband
would have laid a last slice of fried sweet potato on top
and drawn a tahini smiley-face on the final falafel ball,
the crown of it all—
but tomorrow will be Sunday and the little girl
will get cookie crumbs in the crack of the pew and accidentally
draw on the wood a bit, leaving a red streak
which will rub off on someone’s slacks or dress next week,
and later that evening they’ll find the rouge stain,
hold up the cloth in the light of their laundry room
and think, hell, I always looked great in this,
so they’ll get the Tide and work it into the stain,
throw it in the washer on high heat,
and early Monday morning they’ll take it out and see
that the crayon is gone, and they’ll smile and hang it
to dry because they care for it, put on a nice pair of boots, No —
the forecast looks good today, so they’ll slip on
some loafers, maybe, as the sun rises there
and in Brunswick too, where Linda stirs under the sheets.
