Still Life With Cheese

—after Florence Van Dijck

we worry over the cheeses 

their layers of ash and marbled skin 

translucent, thickening against the air—

pears lay open corkscrewing off the table

like unmade clocks groping for an occasion.

white birds stare, lace the pleated divide. 

arranged, they ignore the opulence of staling bread,

peck at plucked fruit, ripe bottoms shining reflected plates.

olives gleam, leave a stained pattern on the table—

how should we measure faults we’ve left for others?

I’ve tasted the disappointment of warmed grapes, 

flesh that puckers, decay’s brown mottled breath, 

dreg swirled tannins splayed at the bottom of each cup. 

a paring knife wobbles by the table’s edge before settling 

to catch the light, smooths things to their natural end.