About me
Cooking for Susan (a poem) Leaving behind the world at last,/she slips through the door/to the soothing sound of marinated something/simmering softly in a shallow sauté pan./She removes the day from her breast . . ./like a loving pastry cook,/peeling the dough up from the lake of flour/to lay gently upon peaches./She sits at the table with anxious finality . . ./as a thin cascade of deep cocoa/might settle into its bold adobe bed for a winter./The graciousness of her anticipation/rises up and smiles at the chef’s teacher./While the language of the recipe/is dissolved into spicy sacrament,/and the first weary fork begins its long journey,/she knows, with certainty, why the ice cream stares/at the cooling cobbler, in solemn tiny ceremony,/even joyfully, in an aroma of rest . . ./and she knows that she is dining on his love.