The recipe

I.
back of the knife across the measuring cup.
the wobbly knee butter on the counter. three 
tablespoons. four tablespoons. the Pam spray 
from the cupboard above the oven. the wooden rolling
pin from the top drawer. i take handfuls of flours 
& pat them all over my body so i don't stick. 
i imagine pouring the three cups of sugar down
my own throat to stop the earthquakes in my chest.
i let you mix the dry ingredients with a fork. 
it's nighttime & outside the world is kept warm
only by an oven. thousands of people to the back porch,
laying down like thumb-print cookies. we pick them
up & lay them side by side on the tray, one inch apart.
you get on the tray & tell me you trust me. i fill
your chest with apricot jam. 

II.
the bottoms of my feet burn on the kitchen floor.
what happens when the baker loses his compulsions?
when he no longer imagines the egg shells biting &
bursting blood vessels on his neck? lately, every time
i try to bake something the recipe changes half-way through.
two eggs instead of four. the oven preheating to 
the temperature of the basement, each step sprayed down
with oil. i hear your voice from the ceiling tiles 
saying "he's such a good baker, such a good baker." 
the tray of thumb print cookies bake into each other:
people with their arms & legs fused, one big
sheet of bubbling skin, raspberry jam measured one
tablespoon at a time. i ask god what could be wrong
with me & he laughs & sticks a finger in the bowl 
to lick the batter. you stick to the tray.