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djb47Poems
Billions of women Have known how to prepare a steak. Libraries of recipes, A deep glut Tucked neatly into ancient scrapbooks Boasting of delicate marinates, spells and Sleight-of-hand saucery Like witches hunched over a cauldron Stirring, Kneading with the same spoon That their grandmothers fashioned. Taste, True taste, is a subtle dance Between giving one’s all (Every fiber, every ingredient) And knowing the appropriate spice Ever-proven to suffice By meticulous, observable Experimentation. Billions of women Have had remarkable taste, Memorialized and passed down in a scrapbook Tucked under the cupboard. There is but one of these I cared to read. But it is covered in dirt, Encased in marble, And nowhere near the cupboard.
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May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
Alas, I Cannot Cook
Billions of women Have known how to prepare a steak. Libraries of recipes, A deep glut Tucked neatly into ancient scrapbooks Boasting of delicate marinates, spells and Sleight-of-hand saucery Like witches hunched over a cauldron Stirring, Kneading with the same spoon That their grandmothers fashioned. Taste, True taste, is a subtle dance Between giving one’s all (Every fiber, every ingredient) And knowing the appropriate spice Ever-proven to suffice By meticulous, observable Experimentation. Billions of women Have had remarkable taste, Memorialized and passed down in a scrapbook Tucked under the cupboard. There is but one of these I cared to read. But it is covered in dirt, Encased in marble, And nowhere near the cupboard.
djb47
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djb47
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
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