Bean

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.