Monday, February 2, 2015


By Laura Jensen

Flour is exhaustion.
There’s always some
in the bag’s bottom.

Butter is pain
and in the heat
it can only weep.

Salt is tears,
and cheap.

Onions are the same tunes
to their centers,
always singing to me.
It is their faith
that makes me cry—
they think I’ll stop cutting.

Milk is a satisfied whisper.
are harmony, one-two,
and won’t subdue
their shape to the bowl.
The child won’t subdue
his shape to the shoe.

And the oven
is vast to the toast,
stingy to the turkey.

Broom is the purr
without the cat.
Candles are clever,
clever, clever—
like the cat stretching up
to the handle of the door.

Bones won’t go,
bones won’t turn
into a rib cage,
find the leg bones,
and go.

Sweetie pie, why
go out with the ashes?
Cookie, why?

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