As you might know, April is National Poetry Month, so I figured before the month was up, why not* drag out an old poem of mine about food?
My world is nailed into its genuflections--
ah ginger root, ah psalm, ample indigents all.
Outside the sky is cobalt and heaving,
a baby nattering its bib, bleary
like eyes propped open with onions.
So I turn my kitchen into church,
my scraps into oddments, a bloodless coup.
King of nothing more enormous than home,
and yes, alone, but what of it when garlic
sidles across the skillet and the air fills
with sleeves of scents to hold me in.
*If you figure out why not, please be polite enough to keep it to yourself. Thank you.
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