another poem about a pie
You were at the part of the pie
where you use your knuckles to shape
the crust. You worried about texture
and ratios of flour to water. All the while,
I was staring at your hands. You are
a man whose hands tell exactly
what you did that day.
There is integrity in kitchens too:
knife marks in the counter, creak
of oven, gurgle of ice maker. The pie
could not get in the oven fast enough.
There was flour in my hair, a clapping
in your rib cage. For a moment
we stayed very very still.