Songs of Love and Hate

As I turn to clear
the table, I confront
the two placemats,
side by side, a little
closer than I'd expected.

The left one is dotted
with blood-brown drops.
"Vinegar and oil," I
realize, smiling at the
meaning I've made for

myself. The right one
is dry, but still not clean.
There's a bit of lettuce,
shrunken up like a dark
secret too brittle to unfold,

and a trapezoid of onion
through which the grain
of the mat peers through,
distorted just enough to
make me notice what

I otherwise have learned
not to see. They are
spaced in accordance
with the rule of thirds

which implores us to
avoid the center at all
costs. All I can do is stand
aside and watch.