A recipe for one
Most novels start getting interesting towards the end -
a mockery of real life, which doesn't cut off at the sunset.
As it stands, I'm working on chapter 1 again. Always awkward,
that dry place where we look at scenery and capture interest,
learn the characters' names,
try to see if his eyes are brown or hazel,
and wonder if he will break my heart or fail to touch it.
For the moment, strangers, strangely together,
stuffing all that expectation into one evening of maybe,
trying to pose, trying not to pose, trying not to try to
do anything, specifically.

Lying in bed the next morning, in sheets that hold my own warmth.
Waking to myself, this is good. I own these sheets.
I own the time of my waking
and what I will do for the moments after.
It does not matter that my kitchen patterns would weave a knot
impossible to comb through - the cats sit on chairs
and noone will stop me, noone's in the path
between fridge and stove.
I can stand at the sink drinking coffee and noone
steps up behind me to stroke my hair aside,
brush warm lips on my neck.

Ok... if the recipe makes 12 pancakes then
for 6 you need 2/3 cup flour, 1/4 cup milk
and half an egg?

1995



Back to Poem Index Back to my Homepage