Heart

They say the heart learns nothing, bends over rice and macaroni and steams.

Good for the heart’s complexion, increases pressure and joie de vivre,

This egoless zen steaming, this light dreaming, and then the words weave.

The heart fast forwards to find herself, slows to learn of her rejection.

Cooking

“Dart throwers make the best cooks…they know how to concentrate.”

Jennifer Sears, “A Slight Change in Tuesdays,” Fence, Winter/Spring 2006.

If aim amounted to anything, I’d be the best chef imaginable,

Targeting whole eggs into a crockery bowl on the way

To their perfect cracking, golden yolks displayed like

Monuments, perfect mothers, in their tiny space,

The whisk on the sideboard at the ready, a little

Soldier of circumstance

But here I am, the queen of stir-fry and broken

Parts, looking for love behind the range

In the most unfriendly of kitchens: only here

The counter is made for giants, its height

Brushing the contures of my breasts

As if an aberrant lover, my nose close

To the herbs of honor: cilantro,

cinnamon

And another C-word: Cardamon.

I’ve never joined a dart club but was

Good at hoops once upon a time

Before the other girls reached past

My tiny height, then I couldn’t even

Guard, and that has been my story,

Always frothy, never taken seriously:

I think I’ll put my money on desserts.

Last Sight

I used to go there just before dream,

The place on the porch where the wind

Chimes clammered, the small corner

In the cellar where the cat communed.

Day followed day and still no news, no

Epiphany but always meditation,

Swimming the laps, then floating

Keening on bad days

I had thought our lives there would

Last forever, small children,

The warm touch of your hands,

Largely resting on my shoulders.

Now I look out a blue door, the

Small view succinct and specific,

A binocular held backwards

Happy

I have a place of my own, deep woods,

Small parlor, I have a place of my own,

Bright veranda, pines around.

On my table is a bright blue bowl.

From it I eat, cool spoon

To bright lips, happy

—marjorie norris