What comes out of how we press
language upon the mirror of the world?
The body breaks and manifests: its wound,
hunger for pink peppercorns and fish
sauce; shrimp laced with the tang of dancing
feet. We get up in the morning to roll
the dough upon a counter, salt it
with poems that never made it past
our dreams. Each knob is dusted with crumbs
before it even passes through the fire.
Warm globes emerge with a crust
we'll tear apart, history a narrative
we've tried to classify into parts: past,
present, and a future we say we can't
predict, though we never really fall
out of love with time. See how we
make all these tiny corrections—more
leavening, more air, more heat, more light.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.