In a Clean White Bowl
When I used to workshop my poems (pre-kidlets), the group required the poet to remain silent while everyone discussed the piece, pros & cons, images, themes, language, etc... The poet could not utter a word of explanation, lest they taint someone's interpretation. That is what I will do here, although I feel an overwhelming urge to explain. Explain, what, however, I am not sure. This poem came to me quite as is, with no explanation. The muse is fickle that way.
Thank you to Megan, however, for her line "resting in a clean white bowl." I took liberty with "rest," but doesn't every mother?
Recipe for a Slow Morning, Not to Be Confused with Hair of the Dog
Into a clean white bowl
a handful of yesterday’s clothes
snipped into neat, tiny squares.
Frayed cuff of faded jean,
gemstone letters, pink C, white G,
from Cowgirl shirt.
Beneath gauzy cheesecloth
wrap your arms around
your lover, a duck, some slightly
chilled pate, anything warm
and meaty. Squeeze. Mold.
Press firmly into brass bundt pan.
Fold in your youngest child.
Press oldest into service, straight
as a wooden spoon at your side.
Use care when inserting first born
into mix. Stir to the tune of Itsy Bitsy Spider.
Mind the curves. Keep it together
in the clean white bowl.
Into a tall silver kettle slide
hair stripped from household
brushes and combs. Separate
each fine yellow strand, yours from theirs.
Saturate with no more tears blend
of green tea, chamomile, lavender, calendula,
a various and sundry variety of calming agents.
Drizzle with EVOO, extra virgin I love oil,
because it makes your mouth happy when you say it.
Roll housecat’s snore up into a freshly painted picture.
Crush fast and sure with a sharp blow
from a shining silver potato masher.
Scatter fragrant slivered sound over assembled provisions.
Resist urge to combine ingredients.
Stand in middle of kitchen,
gyrate hips. Tell no-one there is an invisible
yellow hula hoop beating you to a frothy point.