chrism & stir fry & grill

breakfast smell has a body 
& his name is st. lawrence.
pacing the house & slapping 
a spatula against the walls.

his entrance makes everyone
hungry, it's one of his miracles.

he asks why i'm not eating
& i tell him it's because
i don't know what to make.

he says it's time for stir fry,
assembling the ingredients
by the stove top, i help him,
water chestnuts & leeks &
bok choy & sugar snap peas.

it's late, past midnight
& he insists that no one
in the world can go to sleep 
less than full.

i don't keep oil in the kitchen 
so we leave to get the chrism
from the glass case at 
the back of the church.

i tell him about the bishop
dipping his thumb in oil
to make a cross on my head
to confirm me.

promises to god often
taste like spitting oil 
& garlic.

we cry because we're hungry
& because we're blasphemous now.

i touch his scars: great big grill
marks, like a panini press
bit his torso-- charred cheeks.

he asks if i know what skin
tastes like & i tell him 
that i can make some assumptions.

the patron of grilling
on account of his own body
over the hot coals-- 
a martyr a martyr

we escape with the chrisms,
the amber tint to the oil &
measure tablespoons into the wok

placing his open palm in the pan
to prove it doesn't hurt,
he invites me to join him
so i do & the churning feels
cathartic. he bites his thumb
but i don't eat my hands
because i'm still vegetarian.

hush & hiss as he stirs,
the rice on the stove.

eating at the breakfast table
late into the night

fork scrape & the big spoon.
st lawrence says 
we still have mouths
we still have mouths