this poem is about the kitchen, it’s about an ancient, seasoned,
cast iron skillet so black, so deep, one should hesitate
before staring into it, and fear what might look back
this poem is about kitchens, like the one in Paris where the
stock pot has been bubbling continuously since the reign of
Napoleon III
this poem is about salty, cultured butter toasting slowly in the
pan, the milk solids browning, that smell, that soul tone
this poem is about olive oil, the cheap, pungent kind that
lingers on the air for the rest of the night – not that
chaste, cold-pressed stuff they sell in corked
bottles – this oil is for cooking
this poem is about the cooks in the galley of the Titanic,
prepping ducklings for the roast and terrines of foie gras,
unaware of what the night had in store for them
this poem is about fresh-baked bread, rustic, sourdough bread,
with a crust that snaps like matchsticks
this poem is about bacon and thick-cut ribeye steaks and crispy
chicken skin that crackles perfectly between the teeth
this poem is about citrus season, and those Texas ruby red
grapefruits, so tart, so sweet, and gone by February
this poem is about a kitchen where someone’s grandmother is
finally passing on her secret recipe for coffee cake
this poem is about vanilla sugar cookies baking at Christmas-
time, and that hearth tone
this poem is about anchovies and sardines, sauerkraut, Brussels
sprouts, and all the other foods they used to think they
didn’t like
this poem is about red wine, the kind you drink, the kind that
smells of dark fruit, and is red as garnet
this poem is about the scent of red bell peppers blackening over
an open flame, and it’s about rosemary and tarragon, and
whole heads of roasted garlic, and the way fresh-
grated ginger smells when toasting in a wicked-
hot wok
this poem is about smelling and tasting, it’s about the ears
and the nose, the teeth, the lips, the tongue
this poem is about lust, and biting off so much more than you
can chew
Wood Shed Writers 
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