A night rain beats the windows,
pushes a tree to the ground.
I am writing you a poem
on curls of garlic paper.
The poem rasps, odorous,
a minced head pressed
by the side of a knife.
It rains and rains in my kitchen.
Heavy drops collect on the ceiling,
skitter down the walls, splash the stove.
The hot oil cracks, splashes back.
The burner flashes blue in the breeze.
The oven’s black chamber
fills with rain. The door leaks.
An acid water, it could dissolve knives,
given enough time.
The garlic husks float on the flood,
white sails with narrow veins.
The smell never fades. Underwater
the ink melts, clouds itself away.
Emily Rosello Mercurio is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Cornell University, where she also teaches composition and has served as Assistant Editor for EPOCH Magazine. Her work has appeared in Puerto del Sol, The Poet’s Billow, Really System, and other journals.