June Cleaver Sends Best Wishes and a Casserole
A Poem for Carolee's Mother on the Eve of Surgery
May your apron wrap round your waist
snug as the man of your dreams at your thighs.
May your flour be content to hide its purity
in the darkened circle of a porcelain rooster,
never dusting your cheeks with traces
of another self, another pale incarnation.
May your cookies rise like hips
in heat, hold their softness on your tongue
even after the oven has cooled.
May the man in white deliver the milk
of compassion, seasonal nog and spirits
well before you prowl the morning
floorboards, a rested angel in flannel robes.
With this dish, may your gut fill
with what it needs. May you find
each ingredient at your fingertips.