cooking
for jazz bands
hungry poets
painters
I haven't cooked in eight years now
how I rid myself
of oven
hob
meat
I stood there eight years ago
on the deck in the harbor
four hours of fresh water
under salmon smoke
above
blue feet
I wake
two sleeps
one spirit
fine?
I pour
sour wine
into the sink
Eating more
what others make
I think
love's in it
slakes this grief
forgotten recipes
mother's crust
father's mush
your love of pumpkin
a sieved
succotash
over there
on the other side -
spilt milk,
no dessert
I wish I'd cry more
