hamburger help me 

i used to write about meat when i was
trying to turn into a cloud. everything
sizzled in a hot pan. a parking lot
slice of turkey. all the cheese in the word
visiting for a brief blessing. my mom 
had a cell phone life. i had a bathroom
free of ghosts (mostly). a bowl could
cradle enough cream to last the dark.
sometimes we let our neighbor become a sibling. 
he still smelled wrong. i road my bike 
with a playing card in the spokes. we had
only one wooden spoon. i stirred & stirred.
woke up in the middle of the night
to visit the ground ground beef. how did
it live so red? i would touch the plastic 
swaddling the spirals. when it talked it spoke
in riddles. if a father is hungry is he a father?
i shut the fridge door. waited for the after-school.
a crock pot without a lid running wild 
in the basement. i forget how to eat often.
never relearn the same. the cows carried me
to a shrine. an old limestone kiln. i brought
buttercups & dandelions. every yellow
i knew. my tongue, lizard like & small. 
sometimes even still i will open the skillet
& find hamburger helper. i will know i am
required to eat. the cows say, "don't worry
we all do it." i don't know if they mean eat
or eat one another. the wooden spoon, soft
from so many years of stirring. somehow 
that utensil always finds me. tells me, 
"a bite is enough." enough to what? to grow
old & bright? to remember my first mouth?
i am still uncertain. i am comforted though
that i can learn over & over again. that in the dark
the town appears largely the same as when
i road my bike to the menonite store
through the fields in may.