Poem: Cookbook

 

Cookbook

 

her mind was a poached

egg because she had never been

able to perfect a poached egg and

the problem had never let go stuck

in the cast iron of her thoughts.

 

the space behind her fixation

suffered heavily from

an oatmeal of mouthfuls

too thick to eat through all of them

and so earned a slap across the face--

 

or used to, specifically

that would be her father

but the man was a time-logged

logger of a corpse now somewhere

below the poached egg.

 

her mother still insisted the universe

was a cosmic egg and yet

all those light years could never

find peace from the self-serving

circular saw of sinful neighbors.

 

yes round and round the merry-go-

round of light years ever went never

able to get under a blanket in 

the dark curled away from the

cookbook of mirrors.

 

 

 

 

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7/18/25 ... mods all day, off and on... 

I volunteered on a crisis hotline for over ten years, long ago.