I’ve been working on a new book of poems that mostly involve recipes. This is one towards the end of the book.

From Recipes for Ascension

 (At the End of the Cookbook)

I have

Nothing left to make

You need only

Ether and air

Our space elusive

To my talents

These days I forget to eat

A strange phenomenon

To a woman like me

Who makes love

In measured

Ingredients

Who makes love

At just the right

Temperature

I have nothing to

Offer you now–

I prefer this:

Closed eye loss

And that longing

which signals

I might be alive.