Don’t use the ladle,
let your whole self
plunge.
Our hearts
can begin
to dissolve us both
even before
the dial turns us
face to face.
Strangers still gather
to sing
Hallelujah
while underneath
the simmer
swells the silence and bloom.
All you need
is an out-breath
for your flavor to rise,
to call you back
to the surface
and you see
the lawyer dances,
the doctor flies,
the teacher plays the flute.
You too are cooking,
somewhere, ready
to step through the smoke.
Sing to me from afar
so I may stay focused
on this meal for you.
I will listen as you race,
crave ready
to arrive on time,
with or without wine
or oregano. We will
not float in dreams.
Give me my ancestry
of tomato sauce
and I form my lips
for a kiss with ease.
No other shape holds
when you stir the pot
but you must
trust this body
somehow
amidst cracked spoons,
missing ingredients,
cleft recipes of memory.
You must take
the tongue across oceans
and friendships,
savor all the beloveds
there are yet to meet.
You must know
this body can taste
the salt. It can favor
the sugar.