Early Spring morning /
kitchen filled with golden light /
I am so lucky.

Crack that egg
Whip that white

The violence of food

Pound that meat
Skin that fish

The violence of food

Roast that apple
Pig, turkey and beef too

The violence of food

Fire that pan
Sear that lamb

The violence of food

Knives and forks
Cut and thrust

The violence of food

Boil that water
Drown coffee and tea

The violence of food

Who cleans up
…

The violence of food

“Oh the COOKIE!” Cried John. “How delicious!
And nutritious and healthful and RIGHT!
Now for most they may seem somewhat naughty
But for ME they are naught but delight!

“You see,” he went on, “I have proof
Of their magic, salubrious ways
A psychic once told me my aura
Glows gold in a chocolate chip haze.

“Macadamia nut and white chocolate
Makes it sparkle like sun on the sea
And Girl Scout troop peanut butter patties
Has it shiver with uncontainable glee.

“Oatmeal raisin means purpley paisley
Snickerdoodles red cinnamon swirls
Gingerbread with black licorice buttons
Causes joyous cerulean curls.

“And with a cookie or two in my belly
I could exercise all night and day
With the power of sugar and flour
Losing thirty plus pounds is child’s play.

“So you might THINK that they just make me fatter,”
Said John as crumbs fell onto his shirt.
“But in FACT they’re my secret to weight loss
Contained in one multi-purpose dessert!”

Okay it’s not great but I tried.

Winter hunger grows
Soup stirs anticipation
I love comfort food

And please give me a ScanPan too.
Thanks!

Sliced persimmons on the counter
Left by you, both gift
And rebuke. You are already sleeping,
And the spoons have been washed
And put into separate drawers, shining
And reflecting each other.

It is nighttime and the kitchen
Is very white and very cold.

Sliced persimmons, neatly arranged,
And without pretense; a fruit
That does not let its thin red juice
Run from the firm flesh; self-contained,
The edges against each other
On the blue ceramic plate.

And I sit down in the wicker chair
And pick a slice with my fingers
And taste the persimmon. It sits
In my mouth and will not yield
Its sweetness to me unless I ask
Indelicately, with these teeth.

Even you, silent
As you have become, still want
Violence. My teeth breaking
The skin. And flavor rendered.