Spirit and flesh have been boiling together.
Years of smutch, and oily reduction,
and each day a thin scum to be skimmed.
A job for a Chef de Cuisine,
a kitchen phantom
who though never seen, has been
keeping the suspension from separating,
the pot from thickening too much
with a pinch of this and that.
I used to imagine that the flesh
was a sort of gospel, bound strongly together
by mind and ligaments,
but each year there is a teaspoonful of loss
that cannot be made up or accounted for.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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