Cooking: A Love Poem in Photographs
Held long and smooth
in my hand, firm flesh and
thin skin, examining the veins,
coaxing out the seeds that
it is most definitely the star
of the evening, but only because
I know what to do with it.
Red pepper, chopped.
I didn’t hesitate to pull
back layers and display
everything that had been hidden
and speculated about, thankful
that I found quality, strength,
yet with quick movements,
I turned that nerve into bits.
I pushed through people
to get to you, grabbed brazenly
with my whole hand, and took
you straight home where you
were swiftly disassembled and
crushed, for my benefit;
my need is all that mattered.
Sudden heat and corresponding
sweat, a dissolution of individual
identities until there was just
fragrance surrounding me,
clouding my vision, almost
transcendent, lingering on my hands
long after I was through
with the handling.
Medium heat, until tender.
Drown everything in unexpected
spice and ease, tightly lidded so that
nothing escapes, not the heat, not
the sweat; relish the anticipation of
flavor, the melding of particulars
into that which is something entirely other,
more beautiful and lovely than then its parts.
Simmer 30 minutes, blend.
In a whir of color and motion,
it’s about damn time, hotter than
expected as it burns my lips too
swiftly to keep it from scalding my
tongue, a welcome pain drenched in
pleasure, and my eyes close
and I sigh, satisfied.
Serve with caution.
Posted on October 24, 2014, in On Being a Woman, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged Cook, Cooking, Food, Hobby, men and women, On Being a Woman, Passion, Poem, Poetry, Soup. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.