On a day

When the wind is unpredictable
you breathe air from my blue eyes
I say nothing
drink sky droplets
as if the Beloved and you
are my flesh and blood.

With a bright orange rake
you summon dead leaves
as if sweeping a monk’s skirt
remove poem sheets
stack them into a palimpsest
to write anew about love.

tomorrow, may it never come,
when your aging handsome face
unruly eyebrows and sag of mouth
will be cut with scissors straight into
your lips for a pomegranate smile.

Only then will I lick
the luminescent red drops
escaped into my heart.

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Instructions to the Poet (or the Cook)

Use what you have
in your refrigerator
Don’t reject wilting vegetables
And fill up the compost bin too fast
You can start by wiping the steel covered island

She is a poet and a cook
but the cook whispers like a fast speed train
Your studio is a mile away, out of sight
When in fact it is merely 35 steps away
Long ones, leaping ones

You know knives need honing
with that sharpening steel tool
it makes you feel good.
And slash, slash, off comes the head
lettuce and her brain melts into butter.

The poet is restless
She looses her shoes and tries on different ones
Not hers, someone else’s, she does not know
Of course it does not work and she hops around
like an invalid, one shoe on, one shoe off.

Enough says the poet.
No more cooking, just go sit in the studio
do nothing
She watches the hectaganol steps meander
Around the tree with thorns

Sometimes getting it wrong
is the best thing
but in the end, she knows she will get it right
having the divine at her muddy feet.