the timer 

I. 
close the oven door. clang the metal pan. 
white kitchen timer on the counter.
you set it to 3 minutes for the brownies.
the sink drips. the mechanism jostles itself
with each sec clink. the persistence of time
is at least digital. the shortbread living room--
you & i folding into the sofa dough. we're making
we're making: what are we making? you page through
the holiday cook books & leave posted-notes
on the pages of desserts you think we should try 
this year. rosemary & poppy-seed, pecan tassies,
measuring sugar as deep as the high chair.
i don't remember the oven of the house in fleetwood
or the house on main street. click-click-click 
the timer is urgent-- ready to shriek. you twist
it forward, muffling the scream in your palms.
II.
where did you learn time? did you peel it
off the counter or take lessons from the blender
blades-- the ones that cut off my brother's finger.
in my room i'm too many years old & i started to
hear our old timer again. faint, at first. the gentle
first clinks, maybe set for twenty-five minutes.
you can't stop her from using your bed as a cookie sheet.
i find all my miscellaneous vessels full of batter:
the pencil jar, the cardboard box by the door,
the iced tea pitcher. i pour them out the window
& they bake-burn instantly on the hot asphalt outside:
smell of angry chocolate. i'm scared it'll go
off before i find it. frantic, i yank out drawers--
the ticking getting louder. telltale nature. 
you're too busy with the non-stick spray, coating
my whole body. the air is made of oil. the timer
goes off. i open my mouth & the brownies are done.