Two poems
on the stove,
half done
and in the throes
of slow simmer
and sometimes…
boiling over
in weary wait
for four herbs and seven spices
of a forgotten faith;
and a pinch of fresh salt
of frozen eyes,
and a feathery pause,
till the moon arrives…
The moon,
says the book,
best be cut right
in a perfect half;
baked to gleaming gold,
and garnished with a star-crossed night.
And then, says Chef,
deep-fry a dream
in the grease called time
add a pinch of desire,
and sauté on full blaze
with a long-soaked prayer.
And then go pluck some rays
from the rapid rising sun
to lace the cup of dew
which the dark saved for the dawn;
And this blend,
says the book,
will soon find its flow
to fulfill the two lone poems,
simmering and half done,
waiting on the stove…
