recipe (for tuesday merienda)
steep your house
in the pocket
of a quiet hour
while Tito boils water
carefully empties the silver
packet of powder
leaves an oil-dappled
love letter
with the instructions:
“eat
now
before
the noodles
grow fat
from sitting
in the broth”
drizzle high-noon
insectsong
over the balcony while
your Titas and Titos
salt air with
their scallion laughter
leave your heart
a tender
yolk nestled
in the uncracked
cream of your chest
lift the long-life
prayer to your mouth
unwind the slow
neighborhood of your days
sit in the broth
of sun, drip green
grow fat
***
What My Father Asked When I Said I Wanted To Be A Poet
How will you make money with that degree? / Can you feed
yourself with the white space / of an errant sonnet? / Can a poem make
a missed student loan payment? / If you get a flat thirty miles into fire country, /
would a poem change your tire? / Will a poem never tire of you? /
When you leave in the forgetful doorway of morning, what stanza
can call you back to yourself? / Can you marry a poem? / What will they do
when you tell them that you’re not raising this baby alone?
