the skillet used to turn
five pieces - exactly five -
from livid scent to sanguine flavor
and we drew runes in the fat
tracing the oily patterns of our future
with fingers
on the back of blue-rimmed diner plates
while we stacked cups and silverware
in the sink
for Mom to pardon later
somehow the oil always washed away
scrubbed off, we supposed,
by the efforts of a tireless immortal who
lived, breathed, and washed dishes on a higher plane of existence
than we ourselves could ever aspire to reach
even seated in a high-chair
but now the fat is gone
and with it all the flavor
rinsed clean by that immortal,
tireless effort
which eventually stymies us all
that housewife rule of nature which dictates where to set the dishes
and sometimes undercooks the future
though it never burns the past.
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