Hello! Just a quick break from vacation to write and post a poem for Poetry Thursday. (I bow before the poetry altar of Liz Elayne and Lynn.) I’ve missed you all and even though I have Internet access, I decided not to blog. But I may need to take a day off from work to catch up on all of your blog posts! My heavens, what have I missed?
*I’ll be a bit slow to respond today, but I’ll try to get as many of your PT posts as I can.*
So today’s poem is about last night’s dinner. And I won’t go into it too much except to say I burned the sh*t out of my finger with hot oil. But the crab cakes were the best I’ve ever made. Does that qualify as suffering for my art? Needless to say, this poem is still uncooked (pun intended). Feedback welcome.
How to Make a Crab Cake
Start with your own body,
the small bones of the hands
moving toward the inlets of the fingertips.
Wanting it too much invites haste.
You must love what is raw
and uncared for.
Think of the crab cake as the ending,
as you till away at the meat, digging for
errant shells and jagged edges.
Always, it’s a matter of guesswork
but you hold it together
by the simplest of ingredients.
Here, the body learns to be generous,
to forgive the flaws inherited—
the warped spatula and uneven pan
yet you never quite know
when it happens,
the moment when the lumps
transcend egg and breadcrumbs,
the quiver of oil in a hot pan,
to become otherworldly:
a delicate morsel
with its crispy outer edge,
and its imperfect, unexpected beauty.