Squid Ink
Tim Tomlinson
Finally we find the kind of squid ink
pasta my wife has been craving in a
hillside restaurant in Taormina
overlooking the Ionian Sea
on a warm spring night with a thumbnail of
yellow moon poking through the twinkling ink
blue sky. Germans at a nearby table
watch a flat screen TV broadcast of a
football match and cheer their country’s goals –
I can’t decide whether it’s pleasing or
frightening to witness eruptions of
German national pride. My wife, lost in
the exquisite flavors of the squid ink,
pays no attention. On the autostrade
way, way below, headlights course along
the sparkling white fringe of surf like fireflies
flickering at dusk. Our sparkling water
stings the back of my throat and brings
tears to my eyes. So simple, all this, so
complete. Why am I so troubled?
Finally we find the kind of squid ink
pasta my wife has been craving in a
hillside restaurant in Taormina
overlooking the Ionian Sea
on a warm spring night with a thumbnail of
yellow moon poking through the twinkling ink
blue sky. Germans at a nearby table
watch a flat screen TV broadcast of a
football match and cheer their country’s goals –
I can’t decide whether it’s pleasing or
frightening to witness eruptions of
German national pride. My wife, lost in
the exquisite flavors of the squid ink,
pays no attention. On the autostrade
way, way below, headlights course along
the sparkling white fringe of surf like fireflies
flickering at dusk. Our sparkling water
stings the back of my throat and brings
tears to my eyes. So simple, all this, so
complete. Why am I so troubled?