It’s never the same, is it, that next night following the meal
you threw yourself into, having braved the zoo of the weekend market,
the mad scramble in your files for a cheesecake recipe that could steal
anyone’s heart, the patient stovetop stirring, the kitchen a thicket
of aromas and your own wild, unassailable ardor. Now, these same dishes
rendered less spectacular the second time around, dessert
a little on the gummy side, house too quiet, and your only real wish is
to clear the fridge of this remainder, wipe the shelves of the effort
you gave. You want blankness, space, a raw canvas for creating.
The stomach of your heart is ravenous and waiting.