My fingertips brush the ice chunks nestled
between the blades of the blender
as my other hand itches for the puree button.
Hooked to the wall, a collection of oven mitts,
plain, decorated, in the shapes of claws, hooves,
animal heads, insulated puppets
eager to plunge their noggins into the stove.
On the Formica counter, splattered buttermilk
pocks craters in the flour, cocaine, baking powder.
In the oven's belly a casserole dish gestates,
its unscraped sauce hardening to lacquer.
Knives glisten, locked to their magnetic strip,
brand new but already dull as spoons.
Cilantro minced to algae puddles on the cutting block.
Beside the sink looms a simmering crock pot
full of strings of sinew, buttons of fat
and the bubbling realization that I can no longer
cook anything without you dipping
your spectral finger into the batter
for a late taste.
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I found myself rereading this piece several times because it changes on each reading. I may need to read it several more times before I finally make up my mind. Serious props for writing a poem that engages me enough to want to really understand the author's intent.
ReplyDeleteThanks...chances are it still needs some work, it's a piece that's been sitting around half-baked (pun intended) for a while. I appreciate the comments!
ReplyDeleteCool imagery and poetry. Thanks for introducing me to your work.
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