NaPM April 1, 2018

[Tracy Mitchell]

Best Thing Since Sliced Bread

I was taught to seek symmetry. 

The one-pan meal– chickpeas nurtured 
in tomato cream, nestled garlic cloves
capers, olives and, no shit– an egg. 
A mistake
not much correctable with a pestle or salt, 
but then, without doubt so am I.

Docks at seaport puff with plunder
from scamp-growing regions– mango,
buffalo, macaroon, cheese from the north,  
all thin-sliced and sold off.  Oh, my grocers –  
my butchers.

I am entitled to my own bread. 

Conformed with course rye ad infinitum
from that strain of sour dough starter
inherited 
along with a cherry wood clock
and my bulbous nose.  
This continuum of leavenings – 
dependable, no matter the conditions,
becomes the metronome of my existence.

An alpine meadow edges conifer stands,
cedar and aspen – a far walk into the hills. 
Red with white spots. White gills on bottom.
These mushrooms slice like day into night,
bad to good, and the converse; fly agaric -
 a misnomer to embrace.

A wicked business this has become.  
I find the spirit, one grinding bite at a time.