Ode to an old friend who taught me how to cook

In this dream, I take the wooden chopping board down from

where it hangs on the wall from meat-hooks the

crass chopped wood like a splayed pig. I take my sharpest knife and cut the

onions and garlic and peppers. My hands smell thick

when I lift them to my face. I sweat oil.

It’s cold outside, but not here:

the warm crackle of the gas stove, the rhythmic slicing

of my motor arms I feel

submerged (but not drowning).

What else?

I peel a tangerine. I tediously lift the white webbing off

each segment and pop

an orange slice into my mouth where it bursts beneath

my teeth.

I will share one with you when you get here, but this one –

just for me. I sit and I listen.

What else?

I have come to realize the days repeat their mundane tasks, that

I will always have to brush my teeth and fold my laundry. What else?

I saw the stars in the hills once and they looked like dusted flour.

I leaned my head on your shoulder and thought they were falling –

my false prophet eyes moved by the gentle sway

of your breathing.

What else?

I’ve learned I am not here to suffer.

I tell my mother this as if it were a secret of the universe;

she smiles and disagrees but

I know the truth of this now and I cradle it to my chest. What else?

My fingers will ache in the cold and turn white and remind me I am still

an animal. What else? I am filled

with love. What else? I do not own nail clippers – I chew them down and

spit the skin of my cuticles out because I am much

too coward to swallow.

What else?

I made myself soup yesterday.

What else?

I think I am happy.

What else?

What else?

What else?