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.
