a recipe for the whole kitchen 

& guide a blade across
the tops of measuring cups
to level them off. the walls
of this house are made of cook books
that need to be performed. i go 
page by page & i pretend
i have helpers. i direct them 
to cup walnuts & to dice
the dried pineapples but 
nothing moves because there 
are no helpers here, only the 
flies that sneak through the slats
in the air conditioner to lick
sweet surfaces. a siren outside
tastes like those red white & blue
popsicles shaped like rockets,
i wonder if they still make those.
baking petite fours & cupcakes 
& macarons. the mixing machine
is telling stories about when 
it grew up. how its grandmother
would make lemon drop cookies.
the mixing machine doesn't exist,
it's a wishful thinking. a wooden
spoon will due or whisk. the walls 
stir. i set all the confections out 
in trays as if there's a party.
yes, happy birthday, but not to me
or anyone else i know. Google search:
whose birthday is it today? Response:
John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy (1404-19)
so i say, why not invite him? 
he'll probably appreciate this 
consider it's his birthday
& he's been dead for a considerable 
amount of time. he'll probably be surprised 
anyone even remembered. i tell the 
mixing machine to tell John the Fearless
that we have been planning a surprise 
for him. the mixing machine asks
who is "we" & i say 
well you & me, of course
which made the machine turn 
back into an armadillo &
crawl off the map. i didn't chase
him, i know he'll be back someday.
cook book after cook book. 
the best recipes are the ones in
different languages & for those
i just trust my fingers-- i pinch spices 
i half fruits & pluck out the seeds.
i knead the dough-- a mound of loaves,
the loaves into fishes or was 
it the fishes into loaves,
either way mine 
turn into salmon & swim
up the staircase & i cook every single
book from cover to cover,
sit in the mound of creations.
i wonder if this is what
god felt like when he made the earth.
no, i'm not comparing myself 
to god, just to how lonely i must
feel to make small beautiful edible things.
i wait for the John the Fearless guy
but he never comes 
so i make a fort out of all 
the treats. i tell them stories
& sometimes when no one is looking
as if anyone is ever looking
i eat one. i eat very carefully 
& slow. i feel badly when i do--
like i'm eating children, like
they're asking for forgiveness 
for every powdered sugar corner 
& icing-ed forehead. i tell them 
i'm sorry i made so many.