Seasoning the body
With rain. With sun.
With sleep. With staying
awake until your heart's a butterfly
in the cage of your chest, wondering
where she'll hatch from this
But the chrysalis isn't done
cooking yet. Continue to
correct the seasoning
With love. With anger.
With attention to every
web between the digits.
With correction. With addition.
With apples and forgetfulness.
Let it steep in sleep until
your heart's a caterpillar
who forgot he was a butterfly.
Then slowly, return to the boil,
the colours in the oil,
wings, waiting in the spotlight,
drying in the sun.
This is the only recipe worth reading
and it hasn't be written yet, can't be.
This is the only thing you need to figure out:
with what meal will you present the lips of death?
O kiss her
with every second of your seasoning.
© 2004 Nicole Bauberger