In the meanwhile, I cook
oxtail ragouts, parsnip
potages and other strange
stews with foreign names,
raspberry trifles, pistachio
biscotti, odd chutneys and jams
I never before attempted—not even
tasted—first pulling out pots,
bowls and utensils, then setting
ingredients on the green soapstone
counter to zest or mince precisely,
following each step Julia
or Alice or Maida lays out,
letting recipe and procedure
(God’s in the detail) carry me
past slow afternoon hours,
because these are processes
I can control. Because
while I live within
these small acts, I cannot
dwell on the uncertain prognosis.
And if I stand here long enough,
concentrate well enough, pound
and chop hard enough,
chances are I will sleep
through the night
First published in Sow’s Ear Poetry Review
oxtail ragouts, parsnip
potages and other strange
stews with foreign names,
raspberry trifles, pistachio
biscotti, odd chutneys and jams
I never before attempted—not even
tasted—first pulling out pots,
bowls and utensils, then setting
ingredients on the green soapstone
counter to zest or mince precisely,
following each step Julia
or Alice or Maida lays out,
letting recipe and procedure
(God’s in the detail) carry me
past slow afternoon hours,
because these are processes
I can control. Because
while I live within
these small acts, I cannot
dwell on the uncertain prognosis.
And if I stand here long enough,
concentrate well enough, pound
and chop hard enough,
chances are I will sleep
through the night
First published in Sow’s Ear Poetry Review