on pickling

In cupboards, there your eyes still linger on.
The day we met, I slid inside the wild,
and watched you, crouching, playing pool.  Your strong
hand held mine limp, and dead-fish fear swam, tiled,
under your retinas. (snatched by then, I held
them long)  Inside, your walls were spread with porn,
Moroccan drums; the mint leaves wilted, jelled
inside the demitasse, and you were torn
between the breasts-- the full, tacked on the wall,
the odd, not French, in three dimensions.  Raw,
I broke you into bite-size flowers, small,
for rice, for sandwich.  Brown soft eyes, in awe,
I put you in the jar with pepper, thyme
and boiled the three parts water, salt, the long
wet slosh of vinegar.  The bite of brine
slipped up my nose; my lips vibrated song.
I'm married now; you're sealed inside my closet, gone;
I come for pickled eyes; they linger on