A Confession of Recipes

If you're reading this, honey it means the diner is burning, It's not a typo or a misprint, but a message: Witches are wisdom-embedded women who have seen worse things than the business end of a newt's behind I once made a man cry with desire on a whim by telling him who he was at twenty-five, I hadn't yet realized it's really just a trick of language to be specific pick the bits of a person, hanging like snagged teeth on stems of last night's arugula reading their cards like tarot on credit serve the assessment of them with a side of sugar they'll call it magic, make you marry if you're good at it—knowing when to grind the spices is the icing sin of men or Saigon cinnamon no matter witches as women, as wisdom get better in time, in the garden, in the kitchen slow-cooking rhymes that melt men's masks over jasmine rice, like loose meat so the young girls feeding at our hems can remember the recipe