Ironic

Ironic,
Isn't it--
We were in the kitchen,
Such hearth to warm
This pounding mass of love,
With a little bit of
Garam masala,
When hot oil,
And metal spoon,
Fed my hand
A searing bite.

The welts began to form,
Even as I ran to the sink.
You stood helpless by.
The music played on.

Later that night,
Again, so ironic,
We left the aromatic
Kitchen,
For the
Black room of
Silver screens,
A glistening web,
Fresh of Hollywood dew,
For our illusory
Pleasure.

You sat
To my left,
My right hand
Cradled in
Ice.
He came in late,
As usual,
And took his seat by you,
Took his place by you,
Took my place from you,
Feeding me,
Again,
A spoonful
Of hot oil.