18 Nov The Cyclone, By Catherine Parke
in the backseat of the company van,
exposing his new habit to tonight’s gluten free pastries and vegan appetizers,
just this one last time.
The Rise
the ornamental kitchen is sterile in preparation for the chef, The Cyclone,
pelting rain behind synthetic euphoria and a white apron.
paranoid, he examines the customer’s oak table littered like a pumpkin scented autumnal shrine,
winter is arriving sooner than expected, as its first storm caresses his right nostril.
he’s swaying with pupils larger than the gold chandelier in the embellished dining room,
as the last guest passes him to sit, a cloud of her perfume swallows him,
reminding him of the woman who haunts his rarely vacant mind,
whom he creates blizzards just to blind himself from,
who he sacrificed to The Cyclone.
he establishes the hierarchy of the kitchen to his diners, he the king, the sous chef,
never mind that sous translates to subordinate,
flooded with false confidence, he announces the first course’s wine pairing.
The Rush
his ears are unable to distinguish between the beeping of the oven and the new temporarily persistent tinnitus.
he slices his right index finger, betrayed by his beloved Japanese blade and his hand’s involuntary tremor,
all his chefs, too, are twenty-one-year-olds distracting themselves from occupational grief,
born out of the muted desire for a quieter life, where job security does not require forfeiting your youth,
the joué is burning.
smoke replaces the minimal air in the kitchen,
his heart palpitates in deafening irregular rhythms loud enough that he cannot hear the world howl at him to stop,
pressure builds in his chest—The Cyclone wants out.
The Come Down
his senses begin to return from under the cloak of white illicit delusion,
he dices shallots to drown out memories of the woman’s voice singing their favourite song in his car, begging him to crawl home,
the blood in his nose has dried—her perfume resumes its uninvited creep into his right nostril.
he reignites his dormant belief in the Lord,
praying he’ll no longer saturate himself with vicious substances to complete a day,
an envious atheist, he returns to the backseat of the company van, as choice is his God,
it is winter in october,
powder snow as if deep in december,
this happens all the time,
the blue moon’s shroud will rise again tomorrow, preparing him for the next twelve hour thanksgiving party shift,
this happens all the time,